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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557128">Let the Happiness In</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justkeeptrekkin/pseuds/Justkeeptrekkin'>Justkeeptrekkin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AUTHOR AU, Acephobia, Bakeries and Best Selling Authors, Canon Asexual Character, M/M, Minor Injuries, ace friendly sex scene</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:14:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>48,328</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justkeeptrekkin/pseuds/Justkeeptrekkin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Sims is a bestselling author who hasn't written anything decent in years. Martin Blackwood is a baker who feels compelled to give a sulking stranger a free cup of tea and pastry. This is the story of how two people finally figured out how to let the happiness in.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>463</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>846</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hi everyone!</p><p>I'm so excited to be writing my first Jonmartin fic. I've loved listening to TMA and have just caught up as 170 came out. The title of this fic is based on the song <a>Let the Happiness In by David Sylvian</a>, which I've loved for these two. </p><p>I'd like to make it clear now that as someone who is biromantic and ace myself, I explore the idea of asexuality a lot in this fic! It's something I'm just coming to terms with and I hope people find it sensitively tackled. </p><p>Secondly, there are some references to horror, in that Jon is writing a horror novel in this story, so there's some very lightly gory bits I guess? But not particularly. </p><p>On that note, I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He remembers him because of the smell of cinnamon and warm bread. </p><p>Bakeries are not a common haunt for Jon. The only reason he had visited this one was because Georgie insisted he do at least once. Barker &amp; King is a small establishment settled on a sideroad towards Holborn; a Georgian building with a white façade, squeezed between a Union Jack splattered tourist shop and an O2 store. How Georgie managed to find a commercial property with an upstairs flat that she could afford in the area, he has no idea. That, he would like to know the answer to. </p><p>On the day of his first visit, Jon had been returning home from a meeting with Gertrude. Talks with his Editor are rarely a thing to look forward to, since she is the most ruthless person he knows and has a habit of tearing Jon’s manuscript to metaphorical shreds. It was a need for something to eat, something to replenish the energy that Gertrude had drained, that had led him to pause outside the bakery. </p><p>He remembers feeling hesitant. Sighing, resigning himself to going inside, as if admitting defeat to Georgie’s request. He remembers stepping into the warmth, the smell of rising bread and coffee. He remembers seeing the small queue, the till absent of either Georgie or (thankfully) Melanie. He remembers briefly reconsidering his decision to come here, before sitting down and taking out his laptop. </p><p>He’d sat there working on his manuscript. The Google doc Gertrude had sent him showed her comments, combing through his third draft with her cold, efficient eye for detail. He had set to work. </p><p>And then he had noticed him, standing by his table. The first thing he’d noticed was the flour dusted on his apron; the little notebook in his hands; a person hovering in his peripheral, nervous, perhaps oblivious to the fact that he had been deep in his work. </p><p>And then he had noticed the smell. Cinnamon and warm bread. </p><p>And then he had looked up at him. Earnest. Perpetual worry lines between his brow. Lips pursed. Dark, curling hair and a smattering of freckles. A white t-shirt showing the soft planes of his bare arms.  </p><p>And then he had blinked. This man in front of him had been totally unassuming, and yet the immediate, instinctive reaction that his presence had elicited in Jon was like nothing he’s ever experienced. No <i>one</i> he has ever experienced. </p><p>He’s read Proust. He knows about the rush of memories that many people associate with the smell of baked goods, memories like running through puddles as a child and coming home to a glass of milk and a slice of cake. The term ‘Proustian rush’ comes from the author’s story of eating a madeleine cake and the resulting flood of childhood memories that the experience triggered. Authors talk about childhood memories like they’re something universally shared, like everyone remembers their childhood as clear as day. Jon is not one of those authors. Not only are his memories cloudy and muddy, but they are very much sans cake and fondness. </p><p>This man, with his notebook and apprehensive smile. </p><p>Is it possible for a person to trigger a flood of emotion like this? Of home and belonging and comfort and goodness? </p><p>The answer must be yes: in that moment, when he had looked up from his laptop, Jon had experienced something close to a Proustian rush. Except it had nothing to do with memories. Jon, as it has been implied, had an unhappy childhood. And yet, the presence of this stranger had brought these foreign feelings, filled him like bread rises with yeast in its bowl. </p><p>You might call it ‘love at first sight’. Jon is too much of a sceptic to believe in such things. </p><p>And so he had stared, uniquely dumbfounded. And the man had stared back, looking anxiously between his gaze and the hands frozen at the computer keyboard. </p><p>“Um. Hi – sorry, I didn’t mean – anyway. Um, what can I get you?”</p><p>His voice is gentle. </p><p>“Tea,” Jon had croaked. He doesn’t even like tea that much, he’s more of a coffee person. </p><p>“Great. Milk and sugar?”</p><p>“Yes,” he had replied. Which is a shame, since he takes his tea black. </p><p>“Anything to eat?”</p><p>He had swallowed. “What do you recommend?”</p><p>“Oh! Well – I’ve just finished a batch of Danish social slices. They’re nice and warm still, if you like—”</p><p>“That’s fine,” he interrupts.</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>And then he had gone. The look on his face possibly a little nonplussed at Jon’s brusque responses. </p><p>And Jon had told himself that if he came back to Barker &amp; King, it would have nothing to do with the mysterious baker who had filled him with the knowledge of what happiness could taste like. </p><p>***</p><p>It’s easy to lose track of how many cigarettes he’s had. Sitting at the plastic garden table with his laptop, balcony overlooking Bermondsey, smoke pluming around him as he stubs out another one. His fingers fumble for the packet, mindlessly searching for his lighter. </p><p>“Christ,” he mutters to himself, reading the fourth draft of his book. </p><p>It’s a warm morning. All the mornings have been warm recently, in a way that isn’t always totally pleasant. He’s been waking up from fitful sleeps with his limbs poking out from his duvet, the curtains hanging heavy without any breeze. Now, sitting on the shady balcony of his apartment building, there is still no cool breeze. Not so far away on London’s horizon, the Shard building is shining in a hazy mirage of sunshine and blue skies. And cigarette smoke.</p><p>Jon sighs, shaking his aching wrists from typing all morning. He writes compulsively. When he stops writing, he feels tired, agitated. Like an anxious cat scratching at the furniture. When he writes, he feels everything pour out. At least, that’s how it used to be for him when he started out – when he was a fresh-faced debut author, when Magnus Books Ltd had taken him on for the first time. Since then, his <i>Rogue Archivist</i> series has been at the top of the crime bestseller list for almost five years. He’s been churning out roughly a book a year, spurred on by the public’s voracious interest in his mystery-solving archivist protagonist and his… and Elias. </p><p>Now, the joy of it is gone. With every <i>Archivist</i> book he writes, he feels the passion for writing turn into urgency. Something that used to be sustaining now like pulling teeth. And yet he’s addicted, he <i>has</i> to write, and that has left him sitting here at seven in the morning on his fifth cigarette, glaring at his computer screen and muttering –</p><p>“Christ.” </p><p>He’s spent an hour just on one paragraph. The cigarette in his mouth hangs limply, his vision fogging up with fumes as he gives a lengthy sigh. </p><p>“This is awful. I haven’t written anything decent in years.”</p><p>The world down below is getting louder. It’s Saturday and the market is being set up, local grocers shouting and putting up canopies for their fruit and veg. Jon looks away from his laptop, gazes out at the view, rolls the cigarette between his teeth. </p><p>The rough vibrations of his phone against the plastic table jerks him out of his daydream. Jon looks at the screen, sighs (since sighing is as much a part of his personality as being obsessive is), and swipes to answer. </p><p>“Tim.”</p><p>“Morning, boss. Knew you’d be awake, you weird little insomniac.”</p><p>“To what do I owe the pleasure,” Jon says through a wince, rubbing his forehead. </p><p>“Well, I’m your agent. Which sometimes means I ring you for business reasons. But I reckon, since I’m a pretty shit agent, you just keep me around for the banter.”</p><p>“Tim.”</p><p>“Gertrude rang late last night, sounded in a bit of a tizzy.”</p><p>He frowns at the pavement below, where a cat is rubbing itself against a lamppost. “Gertrude doesn’t get ‘in a tizzy’.”</p><p>“And normally, I’d agree with you. I suppose tizzy is less the right word. It’s more that she was <i>quietly seething.</i>”</p><p>“That sounds more accurate.” He lets that sink in. “What’s Elias done now?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t know, it’s not like she’d ever give me inside-business information like that.” Tim pauses, the bounce of his Continuity Announcer voice turning more serious. “She said she’s got some bad news, and she wants to tell you personally. This morning, nine am sharp.”</p><p>His stomach drops. “That’s… fairly ominous.”</p><p>“It’s ominous as fuck, boss.”</p><p>“You know you don’t need to call me boss, Tim. I’m an author, and you represent me. You don’t work for me.”</p><p>“Not technically, no. But I wouldn’t have a job without you. Let’s hope it stays that way, yeah? And that Elias hasn’t decided to axe your book?”</p><p>The cigarette flops in his mouth. “Oh God.”</p><p>“It’s been good working with you, boss.”</p><p>“No need to lie, Tim.”</p><p>A laugh on the other end, almost making him smile. “Just – let me know how it goes.”</p><p>And then the world goes quiet again, quiet except for the voices of the fruit and veg sellers three stories below. The corner shop owner opening for the day. Jon indulges in another sigh.  </p><p>His laptop screen goes dark. Sat in his pyjama shorts and an old t-shirt, he reckons it’s time to get ready. It’s seven thirty, and he should probably start thinking about making himself presentable to see Gertrude. </p><p>Instead, he wakes up his computer and opens a different word document. </p><p>He begins typing from the last sentence he’d written. </p><p>
  <i>Human bodies are soft and warm and cloying. She has met many people who have innocently made her wish she didn’t have one at all. People, sometimes friends, who turn from human to animal and look at her with a ferocity that she doesn’t recognise. A seed that germinates in her stomach and wraps sick vines up her throat. She wills for it to dismantle her. She wills her skin to sluice off so she will never have to have a body again.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Have you ever</i>
</p><p>His phone buzzes. He breathes, noticing that he’s been holding it. The distraction is a welcome relief in some ways. This book he has been writing for the past couple of months – he shouldn’t be indulging in writing anything that isn’t <i>Rogue Archivist</i>. That and it’s… rather heavy. Personal, one might say. </p><p>Anyway. </p><p>An email from Gertrude. </p><p>
  <i>GMAIL. You have a message from Gertrude Robinson.<br/>
Jon, I trust that Tim told you about our meeting this morning. I’ll see you in…</i>
</p><p>And thus the thumbnail cuts off the rest email. Jon snorts. It’s only when he checks the time that he realises that he just spent forty-five minutes writing down his frivolous musings. “Ah- shit-”</p><p>He stabs his current cigarette out into the ash tray, now overflowing. </p><p>A quick shower and a cereal bar that he finds at the back of his kitchen cupboard prepares him for his meeting. Georgie has told him time and time again that he should be eating breakfast. He rarely does, even when he’s feeling peckish. </p><p>The sun is already hot. The pavements emit an unpleasant heat, the sound of taxis and buses screaming over each other, an anthill of people going to work on a Saturday morning. The tube is at least quiet enough that he gets a seat on the Jubilee line, but when he has to change to catch the Piccadilly, it’s filled with tourists, leaving him standing and hanging onto the rails, dusty tunnel air rushing in his face through the window. </p><p>By the time he emerges into Bloomsbury, he realises he’s got about four minutes until his appointment. Jon considers that it’s actually pretty unreasonable for Gertrude to organise a meeting with him on such short notice. He’s been working hard on the manuscript, which she will have seen in their shared Google doc. There had better be a good reason for this. </p><p>There isn’t even time for him to go to the bakery. Perhaps even find out who that charming – </p><p><i>Now is not the time,</i> Jon reprimands himself, twisting his lips as he jogs urgently across the road between London traffic. <i>I had a stressful day, and I’d just happened to see a kind looking man offering baked goods at a particularly vulnerable moment. There is little to dwell on, here.</i></p><p>With that, he continues at a gentle jog towards Magnus Books Ltd. A huge, grey bricked Georgian building, a black door and sash windows. Inside, high ceilings with detailed cornices painted white, dull-grey carpets and lots of people who look very similar to each other at their desks. </p><p>Jon takes the wide staircase to the first floor. The people who pass either say hello, presumably having met him at some point (Jon doesn’t remember). Others see him, recognise one of their top authors, and dip their heads in bashful smiles. He is grateful that he does not get this reaction outside of the publishing industry. Authors tend to maintain some anonymity, regardless of how many copies they sell of their bestselling crime series. </p><p>Up here in Editorial, the desks are sprawled in open plan. In the back corner, the glass-walled office where Gertrude is waiting for him. </p><p>Seeing what she is doing on the other side of the walls, he halts. </p><p>“Hi.”</p><p>Jon looks down to the woman who has addressed him. Black hair styled in buns, a matter-of-fact smile on her lips.</p><p>“Sasha,” he begins, hesitantly. “Is she… packing up her office?”</p><p>She nods slowly. “She said you should just go right in.”</p><p>That suddenly sounds a lot less tempting. What was it Tim said? ‘Quietly seething’?</p><p>Jon steps towards the glass door, gives a firm rap. Gertrude looks up from a cardboard box of books she’s begun packing, waves at him to come in. </p><p>The door squeaks open. He stands in the threshold for a moment, looking at the chaos; contracts and books and manuscripts strewn across the desk and carpet, book awards probably packed away. </p><p>“My God, Gertrude,” he says grimly. </p><p>“Quite,” she replies, sitting down in her swivel chair. “Take a seat.”</p><p>Jon steps over a sealed box to reach the black leather armchair opposite Gertrude’s desk. He’s sat in this chair countless times over the years that she has edited his books. It’s old and peeling, complaining at anyone who sits on it. </p><p>“What… Gertrude. What happened?”</p><p>She opens her desk drawer, takes out more papers, shuffles them into something more tidy, drops them unceremoniously into a box. “I am leaving.”</p><p>“Well. Yes, I had figured out that much—"</p><p>“You’ll be in good hands, so you needn’t worry about that.”</p><p>Another stack of papers <i>thwacks</i> into the open box by the desk. Gertrude is frightening when she’s angry. </p><p>“I… I don’t know what to say.”</p><p>“No,” Gertrude agrees. She pauses. “There is little to say. But I wanted to tell you in person. You deserve to know that I’m not abandoning our work by choice.”</p><p>A jolt. “Hang on. You don’t mean to say that-?”</p><p>“Oh yes, Jonathan.”</p><p>“But how could they fire you? You’ve been—”</p><p>“Working here for over thirty years? Worked on the publisher’s bestselling novels, making our company millions? That means little to Elias,” she says lackadaisically. She packs a stapler that looks an awful lot like it’s part of the office, rather than one she owns. “I’ve never asked for any thanks in this career, never felt like I needed it. So this doesn’t hurt as much as you probably think it does.”</p><p>Jon stares at her emptying desk. At the tight bun pulled together on her head, deep frown lines and empty ring finger. </p><p>“This is my fault, isn’t it?” </p><p>The fact that she doesn’t reply immediately makes the nauseating guilt rise into his throat. “It’s as much my fault as yours. And Timothy’s. The three of us knew that <i>Hunting Lonely</i> was a risky book. I could very well have told you to cut out the allusions to the Lukas family, and I didn’t.”</p><p>“I thought… if I changed their names, made it vague enough,” Jon breathes out slowly, rubbing his five o’clock shadow. “I didn’t think Elias would notice. I thought we were safe.”</p><p>“If you’re going to write about English mob families, you are bound to make people think of Peter Lukas.”</p><p>“Of course, that – well, that was the point. But… I suppose what I mean is, it isn’t libel. Not with the names changed.”</p><p>“It isn’t about libel, Jonathan. You know it isn’t.” Gertrude fixes him with a green-eyed stare. Then she sighs, scratches at a tea stain on her desk. “It must have been transparent enough for someone to be upset. And thus complain to Elias.”</p><p>“And you get the axe,” he mutters, scrubbing his face. </p><p>“As I said, Jonathan, I am not nearly as upset as some people assume I must be. I knew the risks. And we must always pay the price for our risks, even if they are calculated.”</p><p>“Did you know this would happen?”</p><p>The glimpse of a smile. “Perhaps. I didn’t think it unlikely. I’ve been working here for too long. The only thing I regret is that I will no longer be your Editor.”</p><p>A quiet hangs between them. The sound of office phones ringing through the glass walls, of books thumping into cardboard boxes.</p><p>“That is the most sentimental thing I think I’ve ever heard you say,” Jon says, with an almost smile. </p><p>Gertrude hums. “You’re a good writer, Jonathan. I shall miss your work. As I said, you will be in good hands; Sasha has been promoted to Senior Editor and will be taking over your list.”</p><p>“Sasha?”</p><p>“Yes. She’s very astute. I doubt she will make the same mistakes as me, and if she does, they will be for good reason. Quite reliable.”</p><p>“I see,” he replies quietly. </p><p>She fixes him with another gaze. “You needn’t sound so miserable, Jon. You always found my notes frustratingly cryptic.”</p><p>“You—erm. Yes. But we’ve also done a lot together. I’m… I’m sorry, Gertrude.”</p><p>She nods. For a moment, he thinks he sees a glimmer of emotion. And then, she shuts it down, taking some brown Sellotape and fixing a cardboard box shut with a loud, sticky ripping noise. </p><p>“Yes, well. That’s all for now, Sims.” </p><p>Ending this meeting as if it’s any other? Jon shakes his head wearily, standing up from his accustomed seat. But then Gertrude continues, “When you’re ready, I’d be delighted to read the manuscript of that new book you’ve been writing.”</p><p>Jon halts in the doorway. The idea of sending this particular book to anyone is daunting, with how personal it is. More than that, though— </p><p>“I haven’t told you anything about my new book. How did you know?”</p><p>She looks at him. “I know a lot of things, Jonathan. Now, off you go.”</p><p>Jon can’t help it, he glares. And then, she smiles. He smiles back.</p><p>Closing the door on that office is a strange feeling. It’s strange, because it’s no different to any other time he’s closed it. With a deep breath to recalibrate, Jon heads back to the stairs. That must be the record for the shortest meeting he’s ever had with Gertrude, at least. </p><p>Sasha looks up from her screen as he approaches the exit. He slows down to speak to her, fumbles awkwardly. </p><p>“So,” he says.</p><p>She taps her nails against her mug. <i>Don’t talk to me until I’ve eaten this mug</i> it says. Jon supposes it’s meant to be funny. </p><p>“So,” she replies. </p><p>“Do you… need anything from me?” </p><p>She stares at him. Where did she learn that? That stare is new. Sasha has always been quite a powerful presence, but Gertrude has also rubbed off on her, certainly. “No. Not yet, at least. I have all the drafts and copy-edits that Gertrude has been working on with you. We could probably schedule a meeting soon, though. Talk through the current draft?”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“Right then.”</p><p>“Right then.”</p><p>Her shoulders move with a silent sigh. “You know, we’re all pretty pissed off by what’s going on. I don’t want you to think—”</p><p>“Not at all, Sasha.” Hands in his pockets, he examines his scuffed brogues. “You deserve this. You’ve been working like a dog for the whole time I’ve been published here, it’s about time you get a promotion.”</p><p>She blinks, having the humility to nod in thanks instead of gushing, considering the situation. “Still. Anyway.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I’ll schedule a meeting for us to chat. How’s <i>Into Apocalypse</i> going?”</p><p>Jon lies through his teeth. “Fine.”</p><p>“OK. Thanks Jon. I guess I’ll see you soon, then.”</p><p>She nods again, and Jon nods back. He’s always liked Sasha for her directness, but that doesn’t make communication any less awkward for him. </p><p>The building is getting hotter. No air-conditioning in company buildings like this, where they’re counting their pennies to publish their next series. He’s grateful to be able to step outside for some relatively fresh, London traffic air. But then—</p><p>“Ah- Jon, I’m glad I caught you.”</p><p>The shiver that Elias’ voice elicits is unparalleled. Very few people are capable of being so smug and smarmy, words dripping with superiority. Jon turns slowly at the bottom of the staircase, only a few metres away from escape. The columns outside the front door of the building so close, yet so far. </p><p>Elias descends the stairs with grace, hand delicate on the bannister. He wears a full three-piece suit, grey, with a pocket-watch. This publishing house is a family business, inherited from father to son over two centuries. Elias dresses like it. </p><p>“Elias,” he greets evenly. </p><p>Those eyes. Christ, those grey-blue eyes. Cold. “How good to see you. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”</p><p>“So I see you’ve sacked your best Editor.”</p><p>A mirthless chuckle, hands in his pockets. Jon becomes horribly aware that he is mirroring his stance, and removes his hands from his own trouser pockets. Elias looks. Looks and looks and looks until the smile falls away. </p><p>“Don’t worry, Jon. Gertrude may be leaving us, sadly – but you won’t.”</p><p>It’s true. He can’t. He’s locked in, contractually. “Afraid to lose your main cash-cow?”</p><p>Elias doesn’t laugh this time. “You’ve never known much discretion, have you, Jon?”</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re implying.”</p><p>“Of course you do.” He sighs, a sound that’s horribly casual as he looks away. “Stay away from Peter Lukas, Jon.”</p><p>Really? Right here in the corridor? “I beg your pardon-?”</p><p>“Oh, it’s a little late to act coy, isn’t it? Believe me, Jon. The Lukas family are not the type of people you want to put in a story, dress up in new names and villainise.”</p><p>It doesn’t take long to put two and two together. The Magnus-Bouchards, in bed with the Lukas mob family. It’s unpleasant, but unsurprising. It’s also very frightening, and it leaves Jon speechless. A jaw-clenching, furious speechlessness that makes him wish he wasn’t so afraid all of a sudden. </p><p>A hand on his shoulder. Jon looks at it like it’s a fly that’s errantly landed there. </p><p>“I hope that’s all clear, Jon?”</p><p>He looks. Elias looks back. A staring contest in the middle of the stairwell. </p><p>“Yes. Crystal.”</p><p> “Good.” </p><p>Elias removes his hand. A sharp smile that’s too wide and toothy spreads across his face, before he turns back into the building. Jon stands and stares, listens to Elias’ voice soften into something more syrupy and friendly again. And then he finally leaves, stepping into the hot air of London’s summer. </p><p>For a moment, he lingers at the front steps of Magnus Books Ltd., arms loose at his sides. </p><p>“<i>Fuck</i>,” he says. </p><p>And then he walks. Somewhere that isn’t here. Anywhere that isn’t here. </p><p>***</p><p>This ‘anywhere’ happens to be the bakery. </p><p>Jon had told Georgie that he’d visited. She said it didn’t count because she didn’t get to see him there as proof. And so, with absolutely no thought of the cinnamon smelling stranger with soft lines and dark eyes, he walks through the heat towards Barker &amp; King. </p><p>Business must be good. There is a small queue inside, people leaving with iced coffees and doughnuts in paper bags. A wooden bench is placed outside with two girls Instagramming their cups. And the smell of bread. Of cinnamon. A smell that makes him immediately think of that man he only met once. </p><p><i>There’s something very wrong with me,</i> he thinks. </p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>Her arms are full of bags of whole-wheat flour, hair clipped back messily. The smile that meets her face is genuine, and all at once, Jon feels guilty that he hadn’t come again sooner.</p><p>“Georgie. Do you… need a hand?”</p><p>“Er, I’m alright. Come on in!”</p><p>“Isn’t this what delivery lorries are for?” he asks, following her into the bakery, bypassing the queue of people waiting for breakfast.</p><p>“Yep. Unfortunately, the lorry is stuck on the M25 and we needed flour now. So. Here I am. Armed to the tits with sacks of flour.”</p><p>Georgie heads further into the bakery, unceremoniously unloading the bags into a box on the floor by the coffee supply. Jon lingers by the counter, pastries and cakes behind the glass. Freshly baked loaves of bread in basketed shelves. </p><p>Melanie, noticing him, at last. Her hands thankfully full of someone else’s coffee, who would probably be upset if she threw it at Jon, having already paid. </p><p>“Oh, God,” Melanie announces. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“<i>Georgie</i> invited me.”</p><p>“Could you not have, I don’t know. Come when I was on break? So I could be somewhere else?” </p><p>Jon opens his mouth to retort, just as Melanie turns on the coffee machine. The roar of boiling water and steam drowns his argument, and she smirks at him. He glares back. </p><p>“Very mature,” he remarks when the racket ends.</p><p>The customer takes his coffee, wide-eyed and awkward as he slips away. </p><p>“Could you two stop it for literally two seconds?” Georgie emerges from behind the counter with tray of croissants, loading them into the glass cabinet. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jon admits. “It’s a… wonderful bakery. Well done.”</p><p>“Well thank you <i>so</i> much,” Melanie snipes.</p><p>“Thank you, Jon. We’re pretty proud of it, aren’t we?”</p><p>“How’s business been? It looks like things are going well,” he adds, gesturing to the now dwindling queue.</p><p>“Good. Honestly, great,” Melanie replies, finally sounding a little more serious. “It helps that Georgie is an expert in running businesses, but honestly… Martin is brilliant.”</p><p>Jon swallows. “Martin?”</p><p>“He’s a brilliant baker. I mean, incredible,” Georgie explains, gesturing over her shoulder to the back door with metal tongs. “He wasn’t the most qualified by far, but he absolutely won when it came to the taste test. I mean, fuck. Did you eat anything when you came by last?”</p><p>“Yes. The cinnamon social—”</p><p>Georgie and Melanie groan in unison. Unsettling. It would be, if Jon wasn’t aware of just how delicious it was. </p><p>“Honestly, hiring Martin was a risk that massively paid off.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>“Since you’re here now, do you want anything?”</p><p>Jon blinks, considers. Feels a little lost as he views the rows of pastries, cakes and breads. “Maybe. I need a cigarette first.”</p><p>The silence that Georgie directs at him makes him tense, wince a little. </p><p>“Are you alright, Jon?”</p><p>He dares to look up at her. Kind, round face and dark eyes looking at him more deeply than he’d like. </p><p>“It’s been… I got some bad news today. I just need to step outside and get some fresh air.”</p><p>Melanie, thankfully, is too busy serving customers to pay any attention. Georgie, however, tilts her head and continues to measure Jon. “I would say ‘do you want to talk about it’, but knowing you…”</p><p>“No,” Jon agrees. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”</p><p>And so he turns, feeling Georgie’s concerned gaze on the back of his head, and steps back into the heat. Craning his head upwards, the sky is cloudless and vast. Bright. He could almost feel like he could fall into it, if it weren’t for the skyscrapers disturbing the foreverness of it. </p><p>The wooden bench is now empty of Instagrammers. Jon sighs, shrugs off his smart jacket (Gertrude had always appreciated an element of formality) and rolls up his shirt sleeves as he takes a seat. The window reflects the heat behind him, and it burns his back a little when he leans against it. The cigarette is in his mouth before he even realises that he’d taken out the packet. A comforting, burning warmth in his throat as he takes a drag and sighs it out.</p><p>Gertrude, gone. It makes Jon nervous. Strangely alone, directionless. As harsh as she had been, she had made his books what they are: a global success. She and Tim had found him when he was in a… difficult place. Seen something in him that he hadn’t really recognised. He’s lived these past few years absolutely terrified of that—terrified of the trust they seem to hold in him, of the talent they seem to think he has. He’s afraid of how real this has all become. What started as a hobby has become something far greater, and it no longer feels in his control. Gertrude had been able to control it. </p><p>Sasha is brilliant, he knows. He’s glad he has her as a replacement, but to have Gertrude replaced at all makes him feel—it feels like when he’d gone playing in the sea as a child, had gotten caught under a wave and couldn’t find the surface, lost in the water and totally disorientated. And no matter what she’d said, Jon knows that he is responsible. He had let his curiosity, his obsession get the best of him. He’d let it lead him towards the Lukas family, researching the most dangerous family in Britain and writing them into his book.</p><p>“I’m a fucking idiot,” he mutters to himself. </p><p>When he’d written his third book in the series, <i>Chasing Marionettes</i>, he thought he’d been toeing the line of getting himself into trouble with his references to Eastern European crime families. But then, apparently that hadn’t concerned Elias in the way his Peter Lukas character had—</p><p>“Hi?”</p><p>Jon finds him standing at the end of the wooden bench. A mug and a cinnamon social in both hands. </p><p>“Ah. You must be Martin,” he manages. </p><p>He feels suddenly infuriated with how socially inept he is. It must show, because Martin grimaces, looks at the mug in his hands. </p><p>“Yeah. Did Georgie tell you about me? I hope—I hope good things,” he laughs. It’s an unhappy laugh. It’s a great shame. </p><p>“Yes.” Jon watches the way the man lingers at the end of the bench, a strange smile on his face. “I didn’t order those.”</p><p>He blinks. “Oh. Yeah, I know. I just, thought you might. Like them. On the house! You seemed… stressed out. Smoking out here and, er. Brooding.”</p><p>A defensive flush of irritation. “I wasn’t <i>brooding</i>.”</p><p>“Oh. Right you are! Well.” </p><p>Martin clears his throat. He pops the plate on the bench next to Jon. He attempts the same with the mug of tea but manages to knock it off with a nervous flap of his hands. Hot tea, everywhere. Jon leaps up to avoid it, tuts. </p><p>“Oh, God—I’m sorry—”</p><p>“It’s fine. Leave it.”</p><p>“Did I get any on you?”</p><p>“No, no, I’m fine.” </p><p><i>He’s completely incompetent,</i> says the cruel part of his brain. <i>You’re just saying that because you don’t like people doing nice things for you,</i> retorts the better part of him. </p><p>There’s a napkin holder on the end of the bench, and they exhaust most of its supply cleaning up the milky tea. Jon, both hands full of soggy tissue, sighs. </p><p>Martin sags. “Well. That sort of ruined my attempt to be nice.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” he replies, and he hates how gruff he sounds. “It was nice to properly meet you. Martin.”</p><p>It was meant to be funny. Sarcastic, yes, but not cruel. Judging by the way Martin winces, though, it misses the mark. There aren’t many who understand his jokes. </p><p>“Yeah. You too—um?”</p><p>“Jon.”</p><p>“Jon,” Martin nods. “I’ll leave you alone now. Sorry. Again. Enjoy the pastry.”</p><p>Martin disappears as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving Jon alone once again, standing by the almost-dry wooden bench. Gingerly, he tests it, sitting down and pushing the ash tray out of the way. Yes, perfectly sittable, no longer wet. And then, he peers down at the little pastry, waiting for him to eat it. </p><p><i>Martin,</i> he thinks, turning the name over in his mind like the page of a book.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hi everyone! I hope you're enjoying!</p>
<p><b>content warning:</b> a) there are references to a horribly acephobic ex-boyfriend in this one.<br/>b) there are discussions of what asexuality means, so references to sex. </p>
<p>Love from,<br/>Just - your resident biromantic asexual author with OCD ajksldj;fk</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a kind of therapy in beating bread dough to a pulp. </p>
<p>Well, he’s kneading. And he’s kneading the way you’re <i>meant</i> to knead bread, which is with some – <i>oomph</i>. So, if Martin is taking out his frustrations with universe because there’s a good excuse to punch something at length— well, then, that’s great. The way he’s attacking this lump of yeast and flour right now, it’s going to come out of the oven the lightest, fluffiest loaf in the universe. </p>
<p>See? Letting out your feelings is a good thing. Anger makes good bread. </p>
<p>It’s his mum. She’s always been… critical. Is that the right word? No, maybe that’s a bit harsh. One might say that <i>she’s</i> a bit harsh, and really, Martin’s just trying his best, there’s no need to make things personal. He’s very sorry if he bought the wrong brand of custard cream biscuits, he had no idea that she didn’t like the ones from Morrisons. And yes, Martin is <i>very sorry</i> that he hadn’t ironed his shirt before he came to visit her in the home, he’s aware that he looks a mess. No, no, really, he’s happy to see her, it would just be nice if she didn’t guilt trip him at—</p>
<p>“Every—waking—<i>minute</i>—”</p>
<p>Martin picks up the dough and throws it against the counter. He’s met with an atomic bomb of white flour in his face. </p>
<p>Alright. He might have over-kneaded this loaf. Probably best to make another one, just in case. </p>
<p>Martin dusts off his hands, his face, his entire life of flour. Dropping the pummelled dough into a tin and popping it into the oven, he sets to making a new loaf. This one, he’ll be less mean to. He pours the flour and yeast into the bowl with a more level head. Cools down both literally and metaphorically: it’s boiling in this tiny, metal kitchen. And with every second that passes, the dizzying anger gives way to guilt. Sick, heavy guilt. </p>
<p>He sighs and hangs his head. </p>
<p>Being angry is better than this. </p>
<p>“Martin?”</p>
<p>His little yelp fills the small room. Melanie stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the shop, brows raising as she looks Martin up and down. Still covered in flour, he supposes. </p>
<p>“Melanie—hi.”</p>
<p>“Alright?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, just. Gave me a shock.”</p>
<p>“I got that impression,” she says slowly, frowning at him. There’s humour in her voice. “You. Really gave that bread dough shit, huh? Punched it Mortal Combat style.”</p>
<p>“It – ha,” Martin rubs the back of his neck. “You heard, then? Um. I promise it deserved it.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure it did. I just wanted to let you know that people are really loving the iced buns, so, er, good call. The lemon icing ones are super popular.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Really? I thought people might think they’re a bit… out of fashion, or something. They’re something your gran gives you, really, aren’t they.”</p>
<p>“Maybe that’s why people like them, nostalgia or something.” Melanie gives him a long look. “You should come see for yourself. And, um— you could bring the tiffin through while you’re at it.”</p>
<p>“Sure, no problem.”</p>
<p>Melanie disappears. Martin closes his eyes and face-palms. His anger management techniques should probably wait for when he gets home. </p>
<p>The tiffin hasn’t been cut yet. A layer of chocolate and cherries and biscuit, the surface shining nicely. Martin takes the tray from the fridge, slices with painstaking precision – he wants to do his best for the girls, they deserve it after how much work they’ve put into this place – and carries it into the shop. </p>
<p>It’s hot out here as well; he’s relieved he’s got enough plain white t-shirts at the back of his chest of drawers to get him through this ridiculous summer. He still probably looks like a complete mess, face pink and sweaty and <i>ugh</i>. That, and people always seem a little intimidated when he emerges from the kitchen— a six-foot three bloke crouching through the doorway with cooking implements. Until they realise he really looks more like a young father Christmas than an ex-convict.  </p>
<p>Georgie is searching through their logbook and filling out forms behind the counter. He doesn’t want to interrupt, so he quietly fills the cabinet with tiffin slices whilst Melanie serves the queue. The number of customers really seems to be increasing—drastically. Martin smiles bashfully as people make <i>ooo</i> and <i>yum</i> noises at the filling glass cabinet of cakes. </p>
<p>“Martin.”</p>
<p>That sounds like Georgie’s boss-voice. Uh oh. “That’s me!”</p>
<p>“Can I just ask,” she asks slowly. “How many free cakes have you been giving?”</p>
<p>“Oh God – no, really, hardly any! I know how important this is for you, I’d never jeopardise – it – was literally just for this one guy, and it’s only been twice. So, in total, two free cakes. That’s all. Please feel free to take it out of my –”</p>
<p>“Ah, yeah.” Georgie, who had been crouched over the bakery finances, finally peers up at Martin with a look of understanding. “Jon did mention the free cake.”</p>
<p>Martin registers this, holding an empty baking tray. “You know Jon?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, he’s the one I was telling you about, we go way back. God knows why, the prick. You know, he’s more than capable of buying stuff here. I could have taken up him on the offer of the big cheque he wanted to hand over to me to help get this place up and running, but—”</p>
<p>“Wait, hang on—”</p>
<p>Oh God. He’s going to have an aneurism. </p>
<p>“That was Jon? The man I gave two free pastries to – that was your friend Jon?”</p>
<p>A smile begins to grow on Georgie’s face. “Yeah. I did mention he’d be swinging by—”</p>
<p>“As in, your friend and ex-boyfriend from Oxford who happens to be the international bestseller of my favourite book series, <i>Rogue Archivist</i>?”</p>
<p>Martin’s going to faint. He’s literally going to faint, and all Georgie can do is lean against the counter and fold her arms. “The very same. He’s a tool, isn’t he?”</p>
<p>“I spilled tea all over him.” Martin slumps against the fridge, clinging onto the baking tray like a life-raft. “I spilled tea. Everywhere.”</p>
<p>“He probably won’t remember. Actually, no, he’ll definitely remember, and for the rest of his life, but still. You didn’t recognise your favourite author?”</p>
<p>“Nobody knows what authors look like!” Martin cries. “Oh, God. He must think I’m totally incompetent.”</p>
<p>“If he does, he’s wrong.”</p>
<p>“Thank you Georgie, but… I… I need to sit down.”</p>
<p>He starts to sit, forgetting there’s no chair. Georgie rapidly pulls one out of nowhere so he doesn’t collapse in a heap on the floor. </p>
<p>“Good God, man. He’s a person just like the rest of us. Arguably. Actually, no, I take it back—”</p>
<p>“Is he really that bad?” Martin asks, although he doesn’t know why. He’d been pretty brusque both times he’d met him. Intimidating, in a scary-food-critic-from-Ratatouille sort of way. “Maybe he just acts like that because he’s posh. And socially awkward?” </p>
<p>Georgie pats his shoulder. “There is that. He’s… not terrible. When you get past the sharp exterior and get used to his, er… entire personality.”</p>
<p>“You dated him.” Martin feels suddenly hot in the face. “He… I mean… he can’t be that awful.”</p>
<p>After a pause, Martin looks up to see Georgie thinking. Eyes distant, remembering. She sighs. “He’s very kind man. The kindest, really. Devoted. But, er, kind of screwed up. Prickly.”</p>
<p>“I—yeah. Prickly is right.”</p>
<p>“Ah, look. Speak of the devil.”</p>
<p>Martin’s head snaps towards the shop entrance. </p>
<p>Grey shirt, sleeves rolled up. Nothing like the smart, suited man he’s met those two other times, but still so well put together, somehow. A shirt, in this weather? And trousers. Not jeans or shorts but proper trousers. So, Martin considers as he stares, a look that is unreasonably formal considering the heat. Bit overdressed for a café. Gently placing his satchel bag on the table by the window; undoing the top button of his shirt and blowing cool air from his bottom lip onto his face; taking a hair-tie from his wrist and closing his eyes as he pulls black hair from his face and bundles it into a messy bun. </p>
<p><i>Oh,</i> Martin thinks. <i>I’m such a masochist. Of course I find the bastard hot. The super successful, out-of-my league arsehole.</i></p>
<p>“Earth to Martin.”</p>
<p>He sits bolt upright in his chair. “Present.”</p>
<p>“I’m busy up here, but you go on over and take his order. Tell him from me he has to pay this time.”</p>
<p>Mouth, dry. Nervous? Very. “You. You want me to…?”</p>
<p>Georgie nods slowly. “Take his order, yes. If you can manage without spontaneously combusting. You realise you’ve gone very red? I know he’s famous but, wow. I don’t even like his books very much.”</p>
<p>“They’re brilliant!”</p>
<p>“Alright, Annie Wilkes. Go on.”</p>
<p>It takes a moment of internal preparation, but Martin stands up. Yes. He will go talk to his favourite author, and he <i>won’t</i> melt. He won’t have a crush on another bastard. No, no. Only nice men from now on. Not ‘prickly’ ones. Yes, he’ll walk over there—</p>
<p>He’s walking over now, notepad in hand and shoulders back—</p>
<p>He’s going to take his order, say hi, act normal—</p>
<p>Almost at the table now. Jon hasn’t looked up yet—</p>
<p>And he’s going nail this. Absolutely.</p>
<p>Martin arrives at the table. Jon doesn’t look up immediately, typing rapidly at his keyboard. Martin clears his throat. </p>
<p>Jon looks up. Expression relaxing in recognition. Resignation. “Ah.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Ah?</i>
</p>
<p>“Hello,” Martin manages.</p>
<p>“Hello,” he responds stiffly. </p>
<p>God, he already looks like he wants to bolt out of the door. A mixture of affronted and alarmed. </p>
<p>“Your name is Martin,” he says.</p>
<p>That. That’s? “Yeah. We, uh. Exchanged names last time we spoke.”</p>
<p>“Oh. God, yes, of course. We did, I remember. Sorry.”</p>
<p>“No, it’s fine! You didn’t…” He didn’t do anything to apologise for. This is very awkward. “I love your books.”</p>
<p>Jon blinks at him. Martin freezes, crushing the pen in his hand. </p>
<p>“You…” Jon softens a little. Shoulders relaxing, gaze still guarded. Fierce. Voice low and clipped when he says, “You read my books.”</p>
<p>Oh God, why did he say anything? He wasn’t going to be weird. And yet here he is, feeling a blush in his cheeks and his throat go dry and his stomach whirring like a washing machine. “They’re – I mean, <i>Rogue Archivist</i> is my favourite series. I don’t want to fangirl, I don’t want to be awkward, I just. Well, I just wanted to say.”</p>
<p>The bakery is loud with chatter between customers. The heat streams through the glass and Martin feels himself melting. He looks down at his messy apron, at his hands fiddling with the pen, feels himself smile self-consciously.</p>
<p>“Sorry.”</p>
<p>A sigh. “It’s alright. I’m…” Jon stares at his laptop screen, and Martin suddenly feels a pang of regret. His sentence is truncated by bursts of outgoing breath when he continues, “It’s – not that I – don’t – appreciate it. I do. I just… I don’t particularly like <i>Rogue Archivist.</i>”</p>
<p>Martin opens his mouth, stares. Jon sighs, picks at his nails thoughtlessly like it’s as essential as breathing. “Really? I mean, I’m sorry to hear that. I think your writing is… wonderful.”</p>
<p>“It’s a pile of—” he cuts off, shakes his head. Huffs a mirthless laugh. “It’s poorly written. Mindlessly regurgitated.”</p>
<p>“But…” Martin clicks his pen on and off. “Nothing is entirely original. That doesn’t mean it’s ‘regurgitated’. Or badly written.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps, but I don’t— <i>like</i> what I’ve written.”</p>
<p>Jon is irritated. And, weirdly, Jon’s mood is irritating Martin right back. Because – well, maybe the stuff with his mum has made him short-tempered today. Or maybe it’s that he’s bored of seeing people being harsh on themselves for no reason. Maybe he’s sick of being harsh on <i>himself</i> for no reason. Maybe seeing Jon do what Martin does best, kick himself when he’s down – maybe it just makes him fucking angry.</p>
<p>Martin huffs. “You’re not allowed to say rude things about my favourite writer.”</p>
<p>Jon closes his eyes and frowns. A moment of disbelief, before peering up at Martin over the top of his horn-rim glasses. “I’m sorry?”</p>
<p>“Not allowed,” Martin says. </p>
<p>“That’s… what?”</p>
<p>“You… you do realise that nice things are allowed sometimes, right? Like, cake and popular books. Whether or not you think they’re ‘good’.”</p>
<p>Jon stares, stares at him like he’s suddenly sprung whiskers. “<i>What</i>?”</p>
<p>“The brooding thing you’ve got going doesn’t make you a better writer.” Martin feels lightheaded. He stuffs his pen and pad into the pocket in his apron. “It’s not. Cool. Or mysterious. It’s… it’s pointless.”</p>
<p>And there is a very long second where they both let the moment settle. Watching it turn into something else, like spreading butter on toast and seeing it melt. </p>
<p>“Pointless,” Jon scoffs. </p>
<p>Oh God. He’s measuring him. Those eyes, Christ, it’s like he’s looking for the answers and they’re written all over Martin’s face. More than that, he looks seriously pissed off. With good reason, Martin realises, and it makes him take in a rush of panicked breath.</p>
<p>
  <i>Wow, where did that come from? I just told off Jonathan Sims.</i>
</p>
<p>“I—it’s just-!” he scrambles. “You’ve only come in here a few times, and you’re always just, rude and standoffish and I don’t see what the point is, especially when you’re just as mean to yourself. Apparently. I mean, I’ve read your books, loads of people have and they like them, there’s a reason the series is a bestseller, right? Because people like them. Isn’t that worth something? If someone tries to do something nice for you, maybe you could, I dunno, just accept that nice thing without being defensive. Like, free cake. For example.”</p>
<p>Jon doesn’t blink. Shakes his head, taken aback. “You’ve met me, what…?”</p>
<p><i>Twice,</i> Martin thinks, but doesn’t supply an answer. Then, Jon continues:</p>
<p>“Why <i>do</i> you keep giving me free cake?”</p>
<p>“Because—” </p>
<p>Martin falters. That is a very good question, and one he doesn’t really know the answer to. Not because he’s Jonathan Sims, favourite author. He’d only just realised that a few minutes ago. And not because he has a crush on him, because he only realised that a few minutes ago as well. Martin does nice things for everyone, all the time: <i>exhaustingly</i>. But he doesn’t give free cake to just anybody. </p>
<p>So—</p>
<p>“You look sad,” Martin says. </p>
<p>And… yeah. That seems about right. It doesn’t seem to be what Jon is expecting, however, whose eyebrows shoot up. </p>
<p>“I look…?”</p>
<p>“Sad, yes.”</p>
<p>Jon stares. It makes Martin a little uncomfortable; like he’s being interrogated. “You just said I looked brooding. Now I look sad?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. You look brooding because you’re… actually sad.”</p>
<p>“I have a fair bit to be sad about.”</p>
<p>That surprises them both. Jon doesn’t look like he knew he was going to say that. </p>
<p>“Oh – I’m. I’m sorry to hear that.”</p>
<p>Martin fiddles with the string of his apron and Jon watches. And there’s something less investigatory about his watching, now. Something more gentle in him. </p>
<p>“What would you like,” he asks quietly. </p>
<p>“I don’t need anything, Martin,” comes the bristling argument. </p>
<p>“Well, forgive me for trying to make you less sad with cake. Let me bring you something, even if Georgie demands that you start paying.” And oh, the way Jon ducks his head and looks away with a frown. So brittle its endearing. “<i>What would you like?</i>”</p>
<p>Jon blinks at his reflection in the window. Dazed and confused. “Um. I don’t know. I have no idea.”</p>
<p>“Alright. I’ll surprise you.”</p>
<p>His trainers squeak against the floor when he turns. The shop has gone quieter; half the tables are empty; the queue is almost gone. And the way Melanie’s eyes fix on him makes his ears go suddenly hot. </p>
<p>Martin dips behind the counter and peruses the cakes. </p>
<p>“Please tell me you were just tearing Jonathan Sims to shreds.”</p>
<p>Tiffin? Too sweet. Cinnamon social? Been there, done that. “Melanie…” </p>
<p>“I just saw you laying into him. That was amazing. I wish I could have heard it. What did you tell him?”</p>
<p>“I…” Martin sighs, picks out a bun with pink icing. “I wasn’t… laying <i>into</i> him. I was – possibly a bit harsh, but—”</p>
<p>“No way. He’s a prick.”</p>
<p>One furtive look in Jon’s direction finds him looking right back. They both turn away rapidly. </p>
<p>Martin snatches a mug, drops in a teabag, turns on the hot water. It roars, and Melanie waits, leaning against the counter and giving him a look. Martin stoically ignores her, hums to himself nervously. </p>
<p>“Must go,” he announces. “Customers to serve.”</p>
<p>“<i>Sure.</i>”</p>
<p>No time to unpick that, he decides, as he returns to Jon’s table. Head dipped, eyes peering upwards at Martin with some suspicion, then at the cake in his hands.</p>
<p>“Christ,” he remarks. </p>
<p>Martin balks. “What?” </p>
<p>“No, it’s just. I haven’t seen an iced bun in years.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Well, then, you’re missing out. These are my raspberry ones.”</p>
<p>He blinks, and the suspicion lifts into a hedgy smile. “It looks delicious. Er – thank you.”</p>
<p>Wow. That makes him feel amazing. Like, really amazing. Even if he says thank you like he's speaking another language. The grumpy guy, smiling and saying his food looks delicious, with something close to authentic gratitude... it makes something in Martin’s chest hum and vibrate. </p>
<p>“You’re very welcome.”</p>
<p>The plate slides neatly onto the table this time, and so does the mug of tea. No spillages. He watches Jon stir the teabag a little before picking it up by the string and dropping it on the saucer. </p>
<p>“Um. I’m sorry, by the way. For going off on you randomly, back there. That was a bit unexpected for me as well. It’s… well. It’s been a hard week.”</p>
<p>Jon stares into his mug, quirks his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “You hardly know me. It wasn’t very appropriate.”</p>
<p>“No, I know. I know. I’m sorry—”</p>
<p>“No, no,” a sigh, “don’t be. You’re right.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” This conversation is still going. It hits him now, that he’s holding a real conversation with Jonathan Sims. Holy – “You think I’m right?”</p>
<p>“I’ve had plenty of people telling me over the years that I need to… well. I think Melanie’s words were to ‘get my head out of my arse’.”</p>
<p>He can’t help it, he snorts. “I mean. That’s…”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell her I said this,” he says quite sternly, “but she is right. It just takes some effort to undo a lifetime of habits.”</p>
<p>“Including smoking?”</p>
<p>Jon winces. “I had actually quite a couple of years ago, would you believe.”</p>
<p>“No, I really wouldn’t. Why would you pick it up again?”</p>
<p>“It’s… hard. Writing for millions of people. Knowing that you’re probably going to get it wrong and that they’re all banking on you getting it right.”</p>
<p>“Oof,” Martin responds.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Jon agrees. “Ever since I was little, really, I’ve chosen very poor coping mechanisms.”</p>
<p>And then he frowns. Frowns down at his tea, like he’s wondering why he’s telling Martin all this. Honestly, Martin is wondering the same, but he isn’t complaining. The only reason he isn’t drawing up a chair and sitting with him is because he doesn’t want to come off weird. </p>
<p>“Well. One step at a time, right? That’s what they say?”</p>
<p>“I… suppose.”</p>
<p>“Step one is eating any and all cakes I offer you,” Martin explains seriously.</p>
<p>A huff-laugh. Then, softly, “Yes. Yes, alright.”</p>
<p>Maybe Martin stands there a little too long, looking. It’s only because the smile on Jon’s face is so heart-breakingly fragile; it feels a disservice to look away.  </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>He really shouldn’t be doing this. </p>
<p>No, like – he really, really shouldn’t be doing this. </p>
<p>Google searching your favourite author is normal, though, right? Of course it is. Martin’s done it before, he just doesn’t have the memory to contain everything he’s read about Jonathan Sims. All he’s doing is some research on a literary icon. Right?</p>
<p>Except that’s not it, is it? No, Martin is fully aware as he types <i>Jonathan Sims author</i> into Google that what he’s <i>actually</i> doing is stalking the guy he fancies online. It just happens to be the case that this guy is famous enough to have an (albeit sparse) Wikipedia page and several thousand opinion pieces and reviews written about his books. </p>
<p>And a few decent pictures in Google images, too. </p>
<p>Martin sits cross legged on the futon in the living room. He’s tried to make his childhood home more... homey, but nothing has worked. Not the new photo frames, or the blankets he’s put on the back of the futon, not even the string of fairy lights. This place will always make him think of his mum, even when she doesn’t live here anymore. But it’s either live here or live nowhere, so here it’ll have to be. In the meantime, if he finds some dubious ways of keeping himself preoccupied and avoiding thinking too much, then, well. That’s fine, isn’t it?</p>
<p>Even if it does mean shamelessly following clickbait from Gay Times about Jonathan Sims’ past relationships. </p>
<p>Martin blindly reaches for the glass of orange juice on his left. He doesn’t take a sip once he’s reached it, because he’s totally captivated by the article in front of him.</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <b>Bestseller’s ex-boyfriend outs Jonathan Sims as asexual</b>
  </i>
</p>
<p>This article is dated about five years ago. And there's a picture, a full-body shot of Jon at some book awards signing. Standing awkwardly amongst the camera flashes, deer in headlights. He looks… so much younger. Or, more like he’s aged a crazy amount since 2015 and now. </p>
<p>
  <i>Many of us will have read Jonathan Sims’ ‘Mr Pesticide’ and are sitting on the edge of our seats for the second of the Rogue Archivist series, ‘Changing Faces’, due to come out this autumn. A quick Google search will tell you almost nothing about Sims, other than the fact that he was an only child, raised by his grandmother since his parents passed away when he was still young. A background that would arguably contribute to the macabre tone of his crime series.</i>
</p>
<p>“Oh, Jon,” Martin mutters, putting down the glass. </p>
<p>
  <i>Though we know little about him, now, unfortunately, we know a little more. Sims was recently outed by an ex-boyfriend. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The man in question, who has remained anonymous, submitted to Heat magazine that his ex-partner, Jonathan Sims, “says he swings both ways, but really, he swings no ways at all.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>This ex went further to explain that, “he wasn’t honest with what he wanted from the beginning. If he’d told me he was asexual at the get go, there wouldn’t have been any of this hurt. I thought he liked me, and he lied, for months.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Publicity co-ordinator of Stonewall UK condemned this statement, describing it as “harmful and contradictory to what the LGBT+ community should stand for.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Asexuality is a hugely misunderstood facet of the queer identity, and comments like these breed ignorance surrounding asexual people and asexual relationships. We are heartbroken for Mr Sims that he has been outed and received such backlash.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>In addition to this, Sims’ ex-girlfriend, Georgie Barker, released the following statement on Twitter: “he [Sims’ ex-boyfriend] is a c*nt and that’s that on that.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>In light of these events, Stonewall UK have started a new campaign to spread awareness of asexuality and asexual relationships. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>For more information on asexuality and what it means, take a look at the following links:</i>
</p>
<p>A long, trickling sigh. Martin blinks at his screen and rubs his forehead. “Oh, Jon. God, I’m so sorry.” </p>
<p>What kind of arsehole tells Heat magazine all about their ex’s sexuality? Out of the very few, very dubious men that he’s dated, Martin really can’t imagine ever submitting anything cruel about them to a gossip rag, just for an extra bit of cash. Lord knows he’d appreciate that extra bit, too. Even then, nothing would persuade him. It takes a real piece of work. </p>
<p>The apartment feels small, suddenly. For a long time, it’s seemed too large, too empty. Now, he feels suddenly trapped in here, trapped in the suffocating silence of his mother’s doilies and the 70s, stained-glass lampshade. His footsteps are muffled as he shuffles to the kitchen, grabbing a ready meal chicken tikka masala from the fridge, stabbing the plastic a few times and throwing it into the microwave. And the quiet gives way for its hum. </p>
<p>Martin watches it turn, slowly, deliberately. He can just about see the curry sauce beginning to bubble. </p>
<p>Then he turns and looks at his laptop. </p>
<p>The microwave pings. Martin jumps. He fills his plate. He returns to the sofa. Wakes up his laptop.</p>
<p>
  <i>For more information on asexuality and what it means, take a look at the following links:</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>WHAT DOES ASEXUALITY MEAN?</i>
</p>
<p>Tikka masala balanced on his knee, Martin clicks. </p>
<p>And he reads. Some of this sounds a little familiar, stuff he’s seen floating around online. Some of this is new, and he feels suddenly relieved that he’s actually learning something useful. </p>
<p>
  <i>Most asexual people experience a lack of sexual attraction. There is a difference between libido, desire, and sexual attraction.
</i></p><p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Libido</b> is also known as 'sex drive'. Some might desrcibe it as a craving to fulfill, an itch to scratch which can be satisfied either through sex or masturbation.<br/>
<b>Desire</b>: There may be many reasons for this, including the desire for an intimate connection with a partner, conception, or the sensual experience of sexual intercourse.<br/>
<b>Attraction</b> is when someone finds another person sexually appealing, wanting to specifically have sex with them.
</p>
<p><i>
 Some people who are not asexual have a low libido or desire for sex. Some people who are asexual have a libido, but do not experience sexual attraction.</i>
</p>
<p>“Oh,” Martin remarks aloud. He’d been under the impression that all asexual people were either repulsed or uninterested in it. Which, it seems, is the case for some people, but not everyone. And the idea that attraction and libido are different is a very new concept to him. Well, this is just really interesting, isn't it?</p>
<p>The chicken tikka masala goes cold on his lap. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>He’s not feeling great by the time he’s finished his one-and-a-half-hour commute, stuck underground in boiling heat with no air conditioning amongst four million other commuters. </p>
<p>Martin tries to slip through the café and into the kitchen as quietly as he can, but he’s not exactly the smallest guy, and Georgie—</p>
<p>“Martin, you’re here.”</p>
<p>He skids to a halt in the kitchen doorway. Hanging his head, feeling sticky and angry and hungry. “I’m so sorry, Georgie. The tube strikes…”</p>
<p>“No, no, it’s fine, can’t be helped. Take a few minutes to just, gather yourself, or whatever. If you need to.”</p>
<p>He could sob. “God. Thank you.”</p>
<p>It’s so hot. Why is it so hot? It’s only just turned June, it shouldn’t be <i>this</i> hot. And he shouldn’t have spent hours last night (well, this morning) researching the various corners of the LGBT+ community. Three hours is not enough time to sleep, and he’s running out of t-shirts to wear before he’ll have to take his stuff to the laundrette, and everything is just annoying and rubbish. </p>
<p>How does Jon manage to walk around in suits and ties in this weather? How does he manage to look so composed? </p>
<p>Splashing water onto his face, letting it air dry as he ties a neat bow with his apron behind his back. </p>
<p>Does Jon look composed, Martin considers? Maybe he doesn’t, when he casts his memory back to the way his hair was gathered in a nest of a bun. Or the way the bags under his eyes made his searching gaze a little more frantic. Or the way he picked his nails compulsively, thoughtlessly, a little cruelly. </p>
<p>What does it do to a man? To have his parents die so young, to be raised by an old woman on her own? To have the deepest facets of his life revealed to the world by a jaded ex-boyfriend? The scone batter feels soft and elastic in Martin’s hands as he mixes, pulls off chunks and rolls them into fat balls. He could have found out more last night, Martin knows. His Wikipedia page didn’t give much, but other corners of the internet would surely have provided something else. Information shared by old Oxford colleagues who had no business telling the Telegraph about Jon’s life. Snippets of details in authors’ notes that Martin would rather hear from Jon himself than from one of his books. It didn't feel right to go looking for it. </p>
<p>Martin wanders about the kitchen in a daze, fingers caked in icing. What right does he have knowing more than what Jon has willingly offered in his Wiki page? None. Jon seems like a fairly private person, although that could just be the impression he's got from the way he bristles and stares like a cornered animal. But knowing what he does now, Martin wants to give him even more cake. For free, regardless of what Georgie says. His own pay-check be damned. Free cake for a sad man.</p>
<p>What does having no parents do to a person? He can’t stop wondering about it. What does that do a child? </p>
<p>Stern, suspicious, fragile eyes. </p>
<p><i>The kindest</i>. That was how Georgie described Jonathan Sims. </p>
<p>He’s feeling daydreamy, absent as he steps into the café with a batch of scones. They’re still warm when he places them one by one into the cabinet. The quiet of the place is lost on him as he watches his work, watches the scones form a little row of soldiers beside the other cakes. </p>
<p>When his eyes look through the glass and refocus, he sees Jon, at his computer. Looking in his periphery at him. </p>
<p>Martin stands up straight, looks back. </p>
<p>Jon looks away.</p>
<p>He’s not sure what comes over him. Maybe he’s inhaling too much flour. Does flour do that? Can you get drunk off flour?</p>
<p>Anyway.</p>
<p>Jon is pretending he can’t see Martin approaching. It’s sort of adorable, in a way, although he doesn’t know why. Actually, he doesn’t know why he likes Jon at all, when he so clearly doesn’t like Martin. He gets why he doesn’t like him. He doesn’t always like him, and he <i>is</i> him. </p>
<p>Anyway—</p>
<p>“You’re back again,” Martin says.</p>
<p>Jon closes his eyes with a weary sigh, casts his gaze up at Martin. And he’d forgotten just how intelligent that look is. It feels less threatening now, as if Martin has passed some test in Jon’s head. “Martin,” he greets him. “Yes, I am.”</p>
<p>“My cakes are just that good?”</p>
<p>Martin laughs self-deprecatingly. Jon shrugs. </p>
<p>“Yes. They’re excellent. I’m, um. Not… really a cake person, usually. Yours are.” Jon pauses. “An exception.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Martin says, displaying his dazzling array of vocabulary. </p>
<p>They look at each other. Is this how it’s going to go? Every time Jon comes here, Martin will just linger at his table like a lemon, and they’ll just stare at each other? </p>
<p>Shouldn’t it feel more awkward than this?</p>
<p>“I found – an article. About you. Last night.” </p>
<p>Jon stares harder, expression fixed like concrete. Waiting. Martin scratches his neck, hating himself, but feeling compelled to absolve himself. </p>
<p>“I… it wasn’t entirely intentional. I said I wouldn’t fangirl about meeting you, except I sort of did, and I just did the typical thing of a Google search—”</p>
<p>“Martin—”</p>
<p>“—and I saw what your shitty ex-boyfriend did and I read about it and I’m sorry. I just. Wanted to say that. I feel bad.”</p>
<p>Jon scowls. “<i>Martin.</i>”</p>
<p>“I know it was sort of… an invasion of privacy, or whatever. I just – feel you should know that what he did was awful and he was wrong, what he said was wrong, and. OK. I’m done now. Sorry.”</p>
<p>An exasperated breath. “You really are extraordinary.”</p>
<p>Um. “Sorry?”</p>
<p>“You barge over here, forcing food on me—”</p>
<p>“<i>Barge?<i>”</i></i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“—and tell me to stop being an arse, having met me exactly two times. You then decide to get over your… strangely firm grudge, by stalking me online.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Grudge… it wasn’t a grudge—”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“And instead of preserving any kind of dignity you may have had before, you choose to apologise to me, when you could very well have kept all of that to yourself.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Floundering. He’s floundering, isn’t he? “I mean, that’s. That’s pretty unfair, actually. I felt bad, so I owned up, isn’t that-?”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Extraordinary,” Jon huffs. It’s the laughing kind of huff. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Martin’s argument dies. He laughs. Jon looks. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>It’s a moment that feels entirely foreign to him. A kind of understanding that they like each other, despite finding each other totally infuriating. It’s enough to make that little thing called hope rise in him like a bubble. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>***</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>It goes like this.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Jon comes to Barker &amp; King every day. Martin spends the morning baking, pretending that he doesn’t know that Jon is just in the other room. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Martin comes through at midday with a cake and a cup of tea during his lunch break. They talk. Martin asks about Jon’s manuscript, and Jon gives irritatingly cryptic responses. They bicker, Martin will pull out a chair and continue to bicker, and Jon will close his laptop, still bickering. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Martin finishes his lunch break and goes back to the kitchen for the rest of the day. Every now and then, he might drop off some baked goods in the shop, casting Jon a small smile or a silly wave. And Jon will always see him. And he will always smile back; a pursed smile that hasn’t figured out how to be real just yet. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>***</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>It goes like this.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Martin will get ready to go home for the day, washing up and dusting himself off of flour and dried batter. The shop will be empty, Jon having left for the day. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Martin will take the tube back to Stratford, making himself small in a train seat surrounded by businessmen and hot tunnel-dust. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He’ll get home and put on the TV, watch <i>Pointless</i>, and wait for another very early rise. The life of a baker means waking up when everyone else is dreaming. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He’ll heat up a ready meal and fall asleep in front of the TV, and he’ll think of those watching eyes.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>***</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>And then, it goes like <i>this</i>. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He’ll get ready to leave for the day, and Jon will still be there. His head will turn the moment Martin leaves the kitchen, then turn away again. Then he’ll look at Martin like he’s only just noticed him. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“You’re still here?” Martin will say.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>And he’ll gesture to himself matter-of-factly. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Jon will wait for Martin at the end of every work day, but neither of them will call it waiting. They’ll walk to the tube station together, take the same train together, saying nothing. And then Jon will get off, and Martin will smile at his reflection in the opposite window.</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>CW</b> soooooo there are some heavy feelings in this one, it's 99% fluff but they do open up about some of their feelings of anxiety and loneliness in here.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>She dreams at night of a fire. She has a small fire in her, inside her belly. It’s warm and sometimes it is smothered. She doesn’t need it, but she likes it. Sometimes, she’ll strike a match and light it again after it goes out, watch it dance for her amusement, feel it warm her hands, warm her body until it sputters out. It tastes good. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Others hunt it. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>This fire isn’t for anyone else – it isn’t for anyone else, why do they want it? Why do they want it for themselves? Why do they think it’s for them? Can’t she have this fire for herself, just this small fire? </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Why must people turn into animals? </i>
</p><p>
  <i>They see her as a wreck. A body with missing limbs and bloody wounds.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But – perhaps there is a person, somewhere. In the great wide world of guilt and flesh, perhaps there is a person. A person who can sit with her. Two people, side by side, cultivating their flames and whispering about the fear of sharing it.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s fingers still. His eyes fall shut. </p><p>He needs a cigarette.</p><p>No. He needs a walk. </p><p>He doesn’t want to leave the flat. </p><p>Distantly, the clock ticks. It’s not that clock is far away; it sounds distant because Jon has felt himself recede over these past few weeks, and he’s afraid that there isn’t much that will pull him out of it. Whenever he leaves the flat, he becomes painfully aware of how much there is left to do, how much there is left to <i>write</i>. And yet, whenever he sits down and writes, what comes out isn’t <i>Rogue Archivist</i> but this damned horror story with no plot, senseless musings about gore and grief that won’t stay inside. </p><p>So, he’ll just stay inside, instead. Stay in this flat, on the sofa, looking through the windows. </p><p>He’d meant to meet Sasha last week. She hadn’t been impressed at him blowing her off like that. Quite frankly, he didn’t know what else to do. He has nothing to show her, he hasn’t made any improvements on Gertrude’s notes for weeks. For a while, going to Barker &amp; King helped. In fact, it never really stopped helping. But, Martin was there, and…</p><p>Jon stares at his desk. An ugly, polished thing that used to be his grandmother’s. Cat scratches on the legs from when he used to live with Georgie. The Admiral has made his mark on most of the things in here – the chintzy sofa – the dining room table and chairs. Even his duvet.</p><p>Distracted eyes linger on the rest of the room. It is immaculate. Periodically, he will find himself rearranging objects and sweeping off dust. No matter how clean the place really is, he is painfully conscious of how wrong this whole flat feels. How wrong he feels in himself. </p><p>Foot tapping. Teeth grinding. He looks back at his laptop, continues typing – anything to fight against the urge to pace and rearrange and catalogue his living room again –</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“I love you,” she says. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“You don’t even know what love is.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The emptiness in her unravels further into nothing, unwraps her and turns her inside out. “I tried in all the ways I knew. Even ways I wasn’t ready to do. You… you made me cold and empty.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He has the eyes of an animal. Friends, family, and lovers, they’re all animals and the knowledge of that sharpens her.  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“This is why you’re alone,” he says.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Fight or flight. There’s an anger in that comes out in porcupine bristles, and sometimes, she fights with them. Sometimes, she flees. Now, she runs with his eyes on her back. She runs like a child out of the front door and runs until she is lost. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>In the face of grief, do you fight, or flee?</i>
</p><p>The chair scrapes and Jon is standing up. Something angry and hurt and grieving making his hands shake, and he can’t type. He can’t even <i>think</i> about typing. </p><p>“Cigarette,” he croaks to himself. </p><p>The world smells like wet pavement. Cooler, at least. He’s still in his pyjamas – how long has it been since he slept? A sudden heat makes him hiss through his teeth, waving his fingers through the damp air. Burning his fingers on his lighter… he hasn’t done that in years. He really is out of it. </p><p>Smoke curling in his vision, a sweet burning in his throat. Bare feet, cold on the balcony floor, and a <i>drip, drip, drip</i> smacking against the plastic garden table. A little puddle forms.</p><p>His phone is vibrating somewhere. Where is it—oh. His pocket. </p><p>“Hello.”</p><p><i>“Jon.”</i> Georgie’s voice; so gentle but firm, all at once. How does she do that? <i>“Still living off takeaway in your depressing flat?” </i></p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>
  <i>“That’s not what I asked. I know you’re not.”</i>
</p><p>A pause. </p><p>Jon pinches his nose, cigarette ash dropping onto the wet table. </p><p>
  <i>“You know we’re here for you, right? Whatever it is that’s happening.” </i>
</p><p>He sighs. “By we, I’m assuming you mean just you. Melanie isn’t about to open her arms to me.”</p><p>
  <i>“But you can always talk to me. In fact, I’m about this close to blackmailing you so you can tell me what the fuck is going on.” </i>
</p><p>“Ah – perhaps you’ve forgotten. I have a million eyes on me, watching what I’ll produce. I’m writing a bestselling series which constitutes as a pile of steaming <i>shit</i>, and if I don’t finish it, I end up living in my car again.”</p><p>
  <i>“That’s not going to happen. Unless you’ve been spending all your royalties on yachts and prostitutes, which I, um. Doubt. Heavily.” </i>
</p><p>He snorts. “Georgie.”</p><p>
  <i>“You need to stop thinking you can do everything alone.” </i>
</p><p>“That’s how it’s always been for me,” he retorts. Then, softly, “I’ve had to do everything alone, it’s the only way I know.”</p><p>
  <i>“No it isn’t! Fucking hell, you silly bastard, what do you think I’ve been doing for the past twenty odd years that I’ve known you?” </i>
</p><p>“I—” he winces. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. I… I’ve always appreciated you being there for me.”</p><p>
  <i>“Like how you lived on my couch for six months?” </i>
</p><p>“Yes…”</p><p>
  <i>“And how I called you to check up on you?” </i>
</p><p>“You don’t need to,” he grits.</p><p>
  <i>“Maybe I want to. God, selfish git.” </i>
</p><p>Jon leans against the railing of the balcony. He decides better of it when the roof above drips water down his nose. “I’m sorry, Georgie.”</p><p>For a moment, he isn’t sure if she’s still there. Then, <i>“I’m not looking for an apology, you don’t need to apologise, I just want you to be… You’re not going to tell me, are you?”</i></p><p>“I’m just—” Why is it so hard to talk? “I’m working through some things. Stuff at the publisher has been complicated recently.”</p><p>
  <i>“Alright. Well… if you won’t tell, maybe you’ll talk to someone else?” </i>
</p><p>“That is very unlikely, and you know it.”</p><p>At that moment, there’s the unmistakable ring of his doorbell. Which is alarming, since he hasn’t ordered anything, and—</p><p><i>“That sounded like the doorbell,”</i> Georgie says quite deliberately. </p><p>Jon steps back inside the flat. The stifling organisation of it suddenly hitting him as he steps cautiously towards the door. What is it, exactly, that he’s afraid he’ll find—?</p><p>“Oh,” Jon says. </p><p>“Jon,” Martin smiles. </p><p>There’s a little box in his hands with the Barker &amp; King logo on it. He’s got a soggy umbrella hanging off his wrist and the raincoat hood hangs over his forehead comically. His cheeks are pink, like he’d hurried here. Glasses steaming up from the change in environmental temperature.</p><p>“Martin,” he breathes. </p><p>“<i>Oh look, it’s Martin</i>,” Georgie announces over the phone.</p><p>Jon holds the phone to his ear, but continues to stare at Martin, who is dripping rainwater all over the doormat. </p><p>“Well. Come in.”</p><p>“Thank you. I mean, if that’s OK—”</p><p>“<i>It is OK, Martin. Tell him it’s OK, Jon.</i>”</p><p>“Of course,” he says, stepping out of the way. </p><p>He moves about the living room like he’s visiting a museum. A sort of cautious interest in his eyes as he places the box on the coffee table. Dripping water on the immaculately mopped floor. Oblivious of the mess he’s making, and Jon loves it.</p><p>Then, under his breath and turned away from Martin – “Georgie. Did you—?”</p><p>“<i>Yes, I sent him there. Because you need company. You haven’t been at the bakery for two weeks and we’re all worried. Mel included. Martin’s been worried sick, actually.”</i></p><p>Jon blinks. Casts his eyes at the man hovering in the living room with his hands clasped in front of him. Smiling at the bookshelves. Martin, in his apartment, trying to make himself unnoticeable and small. The curls at the sides of his face damp with rain, his cheeks still pink. Bringing in the smell of cinnamon and petrichor. The sight fills Jon, it fills that empty coldness in him.</p><p>“Georgie,” he says again, warningly. Although he isn’t sure whether he’s angry anymore. </p><p>
  <i>“Stop bristling. I’m not asking you to tell him your life story. But, maybe you could ask him to the Magnus summer party.” </i>
</p><p>A jolt. That gets him pacing, stepping into the kitchen where there’s a little more privacy, and he can speak through gritted teeth. “What are you <i>talking</i> about?”</p><p>
  <i>“Well, it’s next week. And I know usually you take me, but I’ve never been into all the weird authors at Magnus. You know Martin would totally fangirl over it.” </i>
</p><p>“There’s a reason I always take you!” Jon hisses. “It’s for...”</p><p>Well. The Magnus Books Ltd summer party is an occasion for the publisher’s employees and authors to come together and celebrate the previous years’ successes. What ends up happening is a giant piss up, which Jon always escapes before it gets too messy. Authors and employees are allowed a plus one, and everyone always takes a date. Jon, having never felt comfortable doing so, always brought Georgie as a friend. It meant he had some company, at least, even if Georgie found it incredibly boring. </p><p>“… I’m not bringing Martin as a date,” he whispers. </p><p>“<i>I mean. It could be a date. I didn’t say that, you did. Just saying…”</i></p><p>Shit. “I don’t—”</p><p>“<i>Alright, must dash. Talk soon, Jon. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” </i></p><p>“Georgie!”</p><p>The line goes blank. Jon peels the phone from his ear and stares at the screen, aghast. And then he peers through the kitchen doorway into the living room, leaning around the doorframe like a guest in his own home. </p><p>Martin’s coat hangs beside the door, dripping safely onto the mat. He’s perusing Jon’s bookshelves still, making quiet noises of interest. The green cable-knit jumper he’s in is new; Jon is used to seeing him in t-shirts, broad shouldered and covered in flour. Soft, whole, real. This Martin looks just as real, but different. </p><p>Well, only thing for it.</p><p>“Martin. Hi.”</p><p>He turns and looks over his shoulder. The smile is wide and genuine, before flitting away self-consciously. “Jon. Sorry for er—turning up randomly like this. Georgie—”</p><p>A little wearily, “Yes, she said you were all worried about me.”</p><p>“We are,” he agrees. The way he looks up at him, brown eyes serious and earnest and things that Jon doesn’t know what to do with. “I know we’ve not known each other long, but I… you’ve practically lived at the bakery for a month. And then you vanish for two weeks, and…”</p><p>“I’m fine. Really.”</p><p>Back to the bookshelves, head tilted and brow quirked. “We thought you’d been kidnapped.”</p><p>“Oh,” he says. Tries to smile. “No, no kidnappings.”</p><p>For a long moment, they both stand in Jon’s living room, staring at the floor. </p><p>“Ah – take a seat. Please.”</p><p>“Oh – thank y—”</p><p>“Do you want anything to drink? I… um…” Jon hurries to his fridge, suddenly eager to remember his manners. Except, the fridge is largely empty. “I have… water, tea or coffee. No milk I’m afraid.”</p><p>A pause, whilst Jon stares into his depressingly empty fridge. </p><p>“Water would be nice. Thanks.”</p><p>“Right… right.”</p><p>He busies himself. Looking at Martin means staring, and staring at Martin means spilling drinks everywhere, so he’s going to have his back turned instead. Fumbling for a glass in the cupboard, filling it with the hand-sensor tap. Eyes averted as he walks over to the living room and sits on the opposite sofa. </p><p>Only looking at Martin when he’s put the glass down on the coaster. </p><p>Martin is here.</p><p>“Thank you for the cake,” Jon says, gesturing to the box on the table.</p><p>“Oh. Yeah, no worries! It’s some carrot cake. It would have gone stale if I’d left it out overnight, so… I hope you like carrot cake.”</p><p>He does. But he doesn’t know what to say.</p><p>Martin clears his throat. “Nice pyjamas, by the way.”</p><p>For a moment, it doesn’t click. Then, he looks down at the pyjama bottoms with cat paw prints scattered all over them. “Oh, Christ. I forgot—”</p><p>A laugh. Martin’s laugh makes his eyes crinkle and gives his cheeks dimples. It makes Jon ache, ache in the same way an athlete relishes the pain in his body after a work-out. “Honestly, they’re brilliant. Never would’ve thought that they’d be your… style.”</p><p>“Georgie bought them for me as a joke years ago,” he says, though doesn’t admit that they weren’t a joke present at all. “I like cats.”</p><p>Martin looks like he’s trying not to smile, and there’s a crease in his brow. “That’s adorable.”</p><p>That—</p><p>“I have never, nor will I ever be adorable.”</p><p>“I didn’t – that’s not what – God. Anyway. They’re. Cute pyjamas.”</p><p>Martin clears his throat again. Jon stares at him.</p><p>“You haven’t, actually… been in here for two weeks straight, have you? Without any exercise?”</p><p>“Yes. It’s fine.”</p><p>“You need to do a shop at some point,” Martin says.</p><p>“I’m <i>fine</i>, Martin.”</p><p>Martin’s hands rest on his knees, knees that are drawn together like he’s trying to take up as little room as possible. Drops of water on the sleeve of his woolly jumper. </p><p>Jon sighs. “I’m… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped.” </p><p>Martin shakes his head. “What have you been doing?”</p><p>Instinctively, he looks at his opened laptop. Martin looks too. The screen is black. </p><p>“You’ve been writing?”</p><p>“Yes, but. Not…”</p><p>Jon sighs, rubs his eyes. Leaning forward on his elbows. </p><p>“You’re working on something else?”</p><p>“Not… intentionally. It’s like I have to. I need to write this thing that’s inside me, I need to feed it or it’ll eat <i>me</i>.”</p><p>When he opens his eyes, Martin is looking. With interest; a careful, kind, searching look. Jon can’t look back. The water stays untouched on the coffee table. </p><p>“What is it about?”</p><p>Jon sighs. “I’m not even sure. Just things that I…” His gaze is on the laptop, but his mind goes distant. “I need to remove these thoughts from myself. They’re like a cancer. All these thoughts that I’m alone and I’m empty and I’m sick. The horrible <i>knowing</i> that nothing can be changed, that nothing I do is good. And all the time, the publisher watching me, waiting for me to… These scars that I’ve been ignoring all my life, they’re… starting to hurt more than ever. All these intrusive thoughts clawing at me, every waking hour, telling me that this is it, all the people that have been torn away from me since I was born – that they’ve left me hollow and broken and that I’ll never be capable of being whole again. So I write and I pour myself into research and I try to fill myself with knowledge and I organise my life to an inch of its life to feed it, so it won’t hollow me out, and… I know that, in the end, I need to distance myself. Not because it’s better for me, but because it’s better for everyone else. Sometimes I feel so empty, I’m scared of letting anyone else fall in.” </p><p>Those last words trip out of his mouth, the last bit of breath inside him pushing them free. He comes back to himself again, light-headed. And the shame of it is immediate. </p><p>“Uh – I’m… I’m sorry. I…”</p><p>Martin exhales, pale. “Fuck.”</p><p>Jon laughs. </p><p>“I mean. That was incredibly depressing. Very eloquent, but very depressing. And sort of scary.”</p><p>“I just zone out sometimes. I...” Jon trails off. “Well, sometimes things just come out. Ideas overflowing, I suppose.” Ideas, or memories. Perhaps it’s a good thing to be letting it all out. But maybe he should be alone when it happens. “I’m not as miserable as I sound, really. It’s just… a long time ago Georgie suggested I might have OCD, and I think she might be right. Honestly—”</p><p>“Do you like Wagamamas?”</p><p>He’s been staring at the surface of the water in Martin’s glass. Now, he looks up. “Sorry?”</p><p>“Wagamamas. You know, the Asian restaurant chain. Does a good katsu curry. Korean pork buns. Do you like Wagamamas?”</p><p>“I. I can’t honestly say I know. It’s been years since I’ve been.”</p><p>For all Martin’s softness and kindness, he can be quite firm. Something solidifies in his gaze, and he nods decisively. “Right. Let’s go get lunch.”</p><p>“Is it time for lunch already?”</p><p>Martin is standing up, looking down at Jon with a frown. “Yes…? Wow, I’m glad I came. You need to get out.”</p><p>“Alright, yes, alright, just – let me grab my coat.”</p><p>“Sure. You may, er… want to change, as well. I doubt anyone would care, but—”</p><p>Christ, yes – pyjamas. “Ah. Just give me a moment.”</p><p>There’s a quiet chuckle over his shoulder as he makes his escape to his bedroom and shuts the door. </p><p>A few minutes later he emerges, hair brushed, face washed, clothes <i>on</i>. A shirt and sweater vest, black jeans. A casual look for him, but the way Martin’s eyes linger makes him wonder if he’s overdressed. He does have a habit of looking a bit out of touch.</p><p>“Is this…?” Jon tries. </p><p>“Fine! Great. Let’s go, shall we? Yeah.”</p><p>It’s drizzling lightly outside. Martin pops up an umbrella for them both, stands in close to shelter them both as they walk. The closeness presses their arms together, makes his breath sound loud in his own ears. Footsteps wet and the pavements steaming in the summer heat. Martin’s jumper rolled up at the sleeves to show freckled arms. A hand between them, holding the umbrella. Something so intimate, for a man he’s only known a month. But then, Martin is the type of person who Jon would trust to share things with. </p><p>There aren’t many people out. What day is it? Jon isn’t certain. Perhaps it’s a weekday and everyone is still in the office. The streets of Bermondsey are quiet except for the odd dog walker, an old woman with groceries, a student in artfully dishevelled clothes. The old factory buildings with their old adverts for WHOLEWHEAT FLOUR or FINEST WOOL fading, paint going dark in the rain. </p><p>“Here we go.”</p><p>Jon had been so wrapped up in the feeling of his arm against Martin’s, so captivated by their syncopated footfalls, he hadn’t noticed how quickly their journey had crept up on them. It was only a five-minute walk in the first place, but he’s alarmed to notice that he has crossed roads to get here and barely paid attention. </p><p>Martin is warm and steady to walk beside. </p><p>Jon watches as Martin steps into the alcove of the restaurant entrance, puts down his umbrella and shakes it out. And then he’s looking at Jon. </p><p>“You OK?”</p><p>“Yes. Why?”</p><p>“You have a habit of staring. Did you know that?”</p><p>He says it very kindly, but it makes Jon self-conscious anyway. He opens his mouth to speak, but chokes.</p><p>“I hadn’t— realised. Well.” He scoffs at himself. God, what a creep he must seem. “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.”</p><p>“I…” Martin’s words trail off. And then he laughs, colour in his cheeks. It’s a scene of bashfulness and sweetness, and Jon knows for a fact he doesn’t deserve it. “Shall we go in, then?”</p><p>They do. It’s just as warm in here as it was outside, the windows steamed up from drying raincoats and umbrellas. Looking around, a few tourists, some young students on dates. Last time he went here, he remembers, there were families with children climbing over their chairs and colouring in the paper placemats with crayons. For now, it seems quiet, and they’re immediately led to a window seat at the end of a long table. </p><p>Martin checks his phone, a frown flicking across his face. Pursing his lips unhappily. </p><p>“Everything alright?” Jon asks, looking up from his menu. </p><p>“Oh, yeah, yeah, don’t worry, just… my mum. What are you getting?”</p><p>“The menu is… pretty extensive. Honestly, I have no idea.”</p><p>The phone disappears in his pocket. “Are you a vegetarian or anything like that?”</p><p>“No. I tried, for a while, but my will power isn’t brilliant.”</p><p>Martin smiles. “Well, I could recommend a lot.”</p><p>“You could just order for us both and we can share. I don’t mind,” Jon shrugs, not wanting to bother choosing himself. </p><p>Something in that suggestion makes Martin hesitate. His cheeks are still pink from their walk. “Alright, sure.”</p><p>There’s a silence that sits between them, but it isn’t awkward. Those moments of quiet have become less and less awkward, their conversation rarely stilted anymore as the month has progressed. Whenever Jon finds himself choking on his words or stumbling, it’s because of a nice kind of awkwardness, a heat at the tips of his ears and a warmth in his stomach. </p><p>Instinct tells him to push it down and snap, and sometimes he still does. But Martin doesn’t seem to be affected by it anymore. Or, rather, when Jon turns prickly at his offers of tea and compliments, Martin no longer wrings his hands. He no longer bites his lip and no longer looks away with a crease in his brow. Now, when Jon turns sharp, Martin just smiles or rolls his eyes or teases or snorts or argues with him playfully. It’s a new thing, for him, and it’s good.</p><p>When he and Georgie would get in an argument, it was like two sharp things finding a way to make the other snap. With Martin, it’s like falling into a net that bounces and pulls Jon back into itself until he finds himself lying there, all the fight gone. Held, until he relaxes and feels less fragile. As aggravating as he can be, sometimes, Martin diffuses Jon’s tension. </p><p>Now, Martin draws a smiley face in the condensation of the window. Jon smiles, draws an eye with long lashes. </p><p>“I know what you mean, by the way,” Martin says, looking at the window.</p><p>Jon looks at him. “What?”</p><p>“When you were talking about your book. I mean, I couldn’t relate to all of it. But I do know about the feelings of… being alone. That you were talking about.”</p><p>Martin draws a stick figure, the condensation loosening and letting drops of water fall onto the windowsill. It’s a very sad thing to hear, that Martin understands. Men like him don’t deserve to be alone, or feel alone. </p><p>“I’m sorry to hear it,” Jon says. </p><p>“It’s alright really,” he replies, and it doesn’t sound like it’s alright at all. “It’s funny, because being alone is probably my greatest fear. Dying alone, that sort of thing. But actually, I’m so used to it by now that it’s almost like a friend. Something familiar. You know?”</p><p>Jon watches Martin’s finger trace the foggy glass. “Yes, I think I do.”</p><p>“It’s… sort of to do with my mum. I don’t want to say it’s her fault, because she can’t help it, not really.” He looks so distant, and Jon wants to hold him. “Dad left us when I was young, and I think I just remind her of him.”</p><p>It makes his throat hurt. It’s so unjust. “God, Martin. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”</p><p>Martin’s brow creases. “You didn’t deserve it, either.”</p><p>The paper menu crumples under his elbow. He finds a crayon and starts drawing mindlessly. </p><p>“I suppose… very few of us really deserve what we get.”</p><p>“Is that what your book is about?”</p><p>Jon sighs. “Were you trying to get me to open up?”</p><p>Martin casts a furtive glance in his direction, turns his attention to the cat Jon is drawing on his placemat. “Sort of. I mean, it’s also nice for me to talk about it. I don’t tell anyone this sort of stuff, and it seemed like you would understand.”</p><p>“I see,” Jon says, nodding slowly. “I do. And I’m honoured that you think so.”</p><p>A long moment passes. And then the waitress turns up, takes their order. Martin looks hesitantly to Jon, a request for permission to order on his behalf. Jon gestures for him to go ahead, and he does. The waitress writes the numbers of their dishes on the placemats, gives a cheery speech about their food possibly coming at different times, and disappears. </p><p>Jon tears the corner of the placemat off. </p><p>“At the moment, my book is about grief. And all the things I told you before. But I have no idea how to make it an actual story. At the moment, I have a female character who’s friends and family are being picked off by some kind of changeling monster. Her boyfriend ends up betraying her, ends up being one of them.” Jon thinks before continuing, “I want to make it a horror novel. To really show the fear that comes with obsession and… well, there is one other thing I thought about putting in there. To hinge the plot onto.”</p><p>“Go on.”</p><p>Is he willing to admit this? “Spiders. I’m thinking of making spiders the main monster.”</p><p>There’s a pause. “Wait. Really?”</p><p>Jon frowns. “Yes. I’m – they’re – well, that’s to say that. I’m scared of them.”</p><p>“What! But they’re only little spiders!”</p><p>“They’re not ‘only’ anything,” Jon argues, suddenly inflamed. He points at Martin, who just smiles at his finger and raises his eyebrows at him. “Did you know that spiders aren’t related to any other species in the animal kingdom? Spiders are so unlike any other species that it is a genuine scientific theory that they were brought to earth on a meteor.”</p><p>“Jon, are you—” Martin laughs. Dimples. “You’re trying to tell me that you think spiders are aliens?”</p><p>“They’re not right.” Shoulders moving up to his ears, tearing his placemat to shreds. “They’re all eyes and they lay eggs in the corners of your sitting room. They’re not right, Martin.”</p><p>“That’s…”</p><p>Martin laughs. Jon scowls at him, feeling a smile creeping up on him. “Don’t you dare say I’m adorable. I’m not, nor shall I ever be.”</p><p>“Well, that’s just not true.”</p><p>Martin laughs, hand in front of his face and shielding his eyes. Jon tuts, kicks Martin playfully under the table. Martin kicks back. </p><p>Their food begins to arrive with two cups of green tea. He’s pleased he let Martin choose, because everything is excellent. They put it all in the middle and dive into each other’s dishes with spoons and chopsticks. Martin is woefully bad at using them, and Jon has to teach him by placing his fingers on the right points of the chopsticks. Martin’s hands are dry and warm. </p><p>“I’m rubbish at this,” Martin laughs. </p><p>“Takes practise, I suppose. I used them sometimes growing up, but we ate most of our meals with our hands. And naan. Naan is the best vehicle for food, by far.”</p><p>“Mmmm,” Martin replies, eyes falling closed dreamily. “Agreed. I need to make naan at some point for the bakery.”</p><p>“My grandmother had an excellent recipe. I’ll try and find it somewhere.”</p><p>Martin smiles at him, a sort of dazed smile. His noodles slip and slide out of his chopsticks and onto the plate, and Jon snorts. </p><p>“Really? You’d share that with me?”</p><p>He supposes there is something intimate about that. “Yes. It may not be as good as anything professional, but… she was afraid the recipe would be lost when my mother passed away. I think she would be happy to know it’s being kept alive.”</p><p>Martin blinks rapidly, looking away. </p><p>“I’d love to.”</p><p>A meaningful pause. And then Martin starts laughing.</p><p>“Martin?” he asks, cautiously.</p><p>“World renowned author, deadly scared of spiders. Honestly, Jon.”</p><p>Jon kicks him again. </p><p>***</p><p>They stay talking in Wagamamas for a while. And when it gets too busy during rush hour, Jon pays (Martin argues, Jon refuses to accept his argument) and they step out into the sunshine. The rain is almost dried out now, and the sky is bluer. </p><p>Their walk is aimless. Simply getting used to each other’s gait, the sounds of their footsteps and how they harmonise with each other. Getting used to talking to each other whilst walking, how to turn and look at the other without crashing into a lamppost. Learning how their words wrap around each other and build conversations that they’ve never had, build feelings they’ve always hoped for but never felt in themselves until now. </p><p>Their feet take them across the Millennium bridge, the wind whipping Jon’s hair across his face and out of its hair-tie. They lean over the edge of the railing and watch the boats drift below the bridge, watch the waves make white froth like in oil paintings. </p><p>They walk into the City of London, soulless skyscrapers and quiet streets with smoking gardens. They find Borough Market, they find Soho, they find streets they’ve never been to before, lost in their togetherness. </p><p>They find Madame Tussaud’s and agree to go anywhere except there. </p><p>The wideness of the world opens itself up to Jon, who has been in his flat for two weeks. And yet the smallness of London with Martin feels like it is just theirs. </p><p>They find London Zoo, Jon buying an argumentative Martin his ticket. Lions, kangaroos, elephants – merry-go-rounds. For a while, Jon does his best not to show his interest, but when Martin teases him into having a go, he gives in easily and they both end up riding the Victorian design horses like they’re children. </p><p>They eat ice-cream and watch the lemurs swinging through their enclosure. Jon wonders if they’re happy in there. Martin asks, out loud, if Jon thinks they’re happy here. He says he doesn’t know, but he hopes they are. </p><p>An aquarium, with dark corridors and tunnels of water. Dappled reflections on the floor, the light of rippling waves on a lino floor. Voices echoing. It smells damp and it’s warm. They laugh at the strange looking creatures, pause at the tanks where the shellfish are hiding under rocks. They peer at stingrays through the open-top tank and whisper about how graceful they are. Martin stays close to him as they navigate the tunnels, and for a while, their hands feel like they’re touching. They’re not; Jon knows. But there is a kind of spark that connects them, and he feels it. </p><p>Standing in front of a jellyfish tank, side-by-side. So many colours. Their bodies move automatically. Water a deep blue, the light of it moving casting shapes on Martin’s gentle face. </p><p>“What do you think it’s like, to just, not have a brain?” Martin asks quietly. </p><p>“I don’t think it’s like anything.” Jon tilts his head, watches the billowing of a pink jellyfish drift in front of them. “Without a brain, it must be… nothing.”</p><p>Martin hums. “I don’t know. I reckon they’re conscious. They have instincts. They just don’t feel.”</p><p>They stare a little longer. Clouds of pink in a dark blue sky. Clouds of stars in space. </p><p>“I don’t know if I’d like it,” Martin concludes.</p><p>Jon nods. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t, either.”</p><p>They stand for a while longer. And Jon closes his eyes, no longer watching; simply feeling the closeness. </p><p>***</p><p>Tescos isn’t too busy at this time in the afternoon, apparently. </p><p>Martin walks in front of the trolley. Takes a bag of pasta off the shelf and throws it in. </p><p>“I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”</p><p>He shrugs, back turned to Jon. “I didn’t mention it. It’s sort of personal, I guess. I don’t know if it’s any good.”</p><p>The back of Martin’s head, small curls at the nape of his neck. The nape of his neck… freckled and the label of his jumper poking out—</p><p>The trolley veers into the shelves, and Jon narrowly stops it from knocking a row of baked bean tins. </p><p>“What do you write about,” Jon asks, gritting his teeth as he regains control. Why are shopping trolleys so hard to drive?</p><p>“Nothing, really. Just day to day thoughts. I write quite a lot about London. It’s a sort of, lonely place to live. Lots of people and none of them talking, you know? So I suppose… that.”</p><p>“Have you ever thought of submitting them to a publisher? Magnus publishes poetry anthologies.”</p><p>Martin shrugs, head dipping to his chest, and Jon follows him down the aisle of sauces and cans. He takes a four-pack of baked beans and puts it in the trolley. “I don’t know. They’re so personal, and I don’t know if I’d want anyone else reading them.”</p><p>“I understand,” Jon remarks. “What makes you think I like baked beans?”</p><p>A snort. “You’re such a snob. Baked beans are what people survive on when we can’t afford anything else. Plus, they taste good.”</p><p>“I didn’t say I didn’t like them. I simply asked why you assumed that I did. You’re filling my trolley with food that I’m buying for myself.”</p><p>“They’re a cupboard essential.”</p><p>They wander in about, both of them picking up bits and pieces. <i>’Spaghetti hoops. Really?’ ‘Yes, spaghetti hoops. Who doesn’t like spaghetti hoops? Should I be worried about you?’</i> The peaceful domesticity of it gives Jon that aching feeling again. Fleeting smiles and careless conversation in the middle of a supermarket, Martin’s hand on the other end of the trolley, guiding him. </p><p>“If you did choose to publish your poetry, I wouldn’t recommend Magnus anyway. Perhaps Faber instead.”</p><p>Martin brings them both to a stop. “Really?”</p><p>Jon’s shoulders sag. “Yes. I… well, there’s a reason I’ve been holed away these two weeks. I’m meant to be working on <i>Rogue Archivist,</i> except.” The handle of the trolley is tacky and rubbery. “My editor was fired, recently. Because of something I wrote about in my last book. The CEO felt that she should have picked it up and told me to rewrite it. People were angry…”</p><p>“Oh, God. Is that with all the…” Martin glances furtively, leans in. “The stuff with the Lukas family.”</p><p>“Yes, yes,” Jon flaps his hand. “That’s quite enough, Martin.”</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“My point is that there are a lot of people who felt that wasn’t very fair, and I feel the same.”</p><p>Martin looks away. Eyes up a carton of orange juice and drops it into the trolley. “I’m sorry. That’s awful. You know, it’s not your fault, though. You do know that, Jon?”</p><p>“It… it is and it isn’t.”</p><p>Neither of them say anything. Martin looks like he wants to argue, biting his tongue. For the hundredth time today, Jon is grateful for him being here. </p><p>The question occurs to him, and he asks before he can think too hard about it. </p><p>“There’s a – a party. Next week.”</p><p>Martin pulls the trolley from the front, half turned and looking at the shelves. “Oh yeah?”</p><p>Jon swallows, gripping the handle. Grinds his teeth until his face hurts. “It’s a rather pompous event. With big buffet and the occasional photographer. Everyone uses it as an opportunity to… go a little overzealous with the alcohol.”</p><p>A laugh. “Sounds fun! Are you going?”</p><p>“I – intend to.” He pauses. Martin is perusing the various loaves of bread. None of them seem to meet his standards. “There’ll be a lot of other authors there, ones who I’d usually prefer not to talk too—”</p><p>“Plus-ones come in handy for that,” Martin says knowingly. </p><p>Except, Jon realises, he doesn’t know at all. Martin doesn’t realise that he’s asking <i>him</i> to be that plus one. And Jon has absolutely no idea how to articulate that, in the middle of Tescos, without looking like a fool and getting shot down. So instead, he flounders. He bites down on his teeth, willing himself to simply ask him, outright. Be direct; no misunderstandings.  </p><p>But then, Martin turns and looks at him. It must be in his face; there must be something that tells Martin what he’s trying to say, because the responding expression is slack with surprise. </p><p>“Oh – wait – are you—?" Martin turns fully towards Jon. Lips parted. An expression of panic creeping in. “Are you asking me to join you as your plus-one?”</p><p>Has he made the wrong decision, here? Has he royally cocked up? “Only if you – it might be boring. And the other authors – well, me included really – we’re not a very friendly bunch, as a whole. I would…”</p><p>Martin’s eyes stare, expectant. Lips pursed against a smile. Those dimples are in his cheeks anyway. How could anyone so loveable have ever felt lonely? It’s not right. </p><p><i>Come on, Jon,</i> he thinks. </p><p>“I would appreciate having you there. If you wanted to join.”</p><p>A breath stutters out of his parted lips. They hover in the baked goods aisle of Tescos in Bermondsey, a trolley between the two of them. </p><p>Eventually, Martin’s eyes flit down at their shopping. “I’d love to. Yeah. I’d love to.”</p><p>“Well,” he says, voice full of smile. “Good. That’s… good.”</p><p>And whilst he’s not sure what it means, or what Martin expects, at least he has this much. Shopping in Tescos with a man he’s falling steadily in love with.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ps, that first extract at the very beginning of the chapter is my take on being ace and being surrounded by horny people sadjkflafjs;dk</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jonathan Sims? A messy drunk? More likely than you think</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This isn’t a big deal. This is not going to be a big deal. </p><p>Martin stands on the sofa, trying to get a better view of his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. This suit is pretty old; he’d bought it years ago for a job interview that never turned into anything. Slightly loose around the shoulders, but not bad. And the pale blue shirt makes him look nice, he thinks. </p><p>Does he look nice? Or does the blue wash him out? Should he try doing something with his hair? He wouldn’t know where to start—</p><p>No, no, this is <i>fine</i>. Not a big deal. </p><p>Other than the fact that thinks he’s falling in love with his favourite author who is known by millions across the globe, and he’s been invited by said author to join him for a very important party tonight where there will be loads of other international successes. But, otherwise, it isn’t a big deal. </p><p>Martin whines at his reflection, fussing over the collar of his shirt. It’s not even very clear why Jon invited him to this summer party. He’d said that there would be other authors, and, well, he knows how much of a fangirl Martin is, so it’s probably just that. That, and a chance to have a friend tag along. And yet, the mean little bubble of hope in Martin’s belly that tells him it could be a ‘come-as-my-date’ situation. A, ‘oh, nice to see you again, Mr Famous Author, let me introduce you to Martin, my <i>date</i>’ situation. </p><p>“Wouldn’t that be nice,” he mutters to himself, stepping off the sofa. </p><p>The plan is to meet Jon by the front of Magnus Books Ltd. At the time, Martin had been grateful that he didn’t have to share a cab or get the tube with him, because it would just give him too much time to psych himself out; trying not to daydream at Jon, who would be sat right next to him. No, a nice quiet journey to the party by himself is just what he needs, walking through the cooling summer air at six pm on a Friday night. </p><p>Now, Martin passes the post-work drinks parties loitering outside of pubs in clouds of cigarette smoke, men in suits hanging through the wide-open windows with pints of beer balanced of the windowsills. Getting off the bus at Farringdon and heading towards Holborn. The nerves start to set in. </p><p>The sky is that pale, purple blue. A hazy London evening, taxis rushing by and concrete walls funnelling him forwards. </p><p>Last time he saw Jon, it had sort of been like a date. That hadn’t been the plan, all Martin had wanted was to make sure he was OK. What started as a simple check-in ended up being a full day out; lunch, walk, zoo, food shop. It had all gone so quickly, those moments with Jon passing like they’d shared countless together already, when they’ve barely known each other a month. It had been so easy, so startlingly easy to be with Jon – a man who is stubborn and difficult and drives Martin up the wall. And yet, easy. </p><p>Turning a corner, heading towards the Georgian town houses of dentists and law firms and publishers. Martin fusses with the cuffs of his shirt. Georgie gave him some information about the party at work today – what people tend to wear, what the food is usually like, how dull the company is bound to be. How posh it’ll be. He likes to think that he’s prepared, but he isn’t. </p><p>He really, genuinely, has no idea why Jon wants him, of all people, at this party. </p><p>Martin winces as he crosses the road and stands under the street-lamp, reading the gold sign beside the door. <i>Magnus Books Ltd.</i> He checks his watch. Ten minutes early. </p><p>Now that he’s stopped, leaning against the black, metal railing beside the front steps, he can hear music. The windows are open on the first floor, releasing quiet noises of polite laughter and piano chords. Something in it makes him tense; not knowing any of the people in the building he’s lurking in front of; looking out of place in his old Marks &amp; Spencer’s suit. On his right, a woman in a blue tea-dress steps elegantly up the steps and laughs with some work colleague she’s here with, smiles kindly at Martin, who waves, not knowing what else to do. </p><p>Maybe it would have been better if Jon had picked him up—</p><p>“Martin.”</p><p>He turns to his left. The moment he sees Jon, he pushes himself off the railing and stands up straight. </p><p>He still looks like him. Jon has always seemed to like dressing formally, his wardrobe comprising of jackets and trousers and brogues and sweater vests. This, however, is the first black suit he’s seen him in, and it… it has a pretty different effect. Less ‘dusty Oxford don’ vibes, more ‘dashing celebrity makes surprise appearance’. And yet, still him. </p><p>Martin can’t help it if he stares a second too long, stares at the self-conscious line across Jon’s brow, salt-and-pepper hair tied up. But then, Jon is staring, too. A moment of them both watching, standing still. </p><p>And then Jon looks down. He restarts his slow approach, head dipped and eyes on the pavement, hands in pockets. An obvious nervousness in Jon’s manner that’s so innocent, and Martin can’t look away. It’s almost bashful.</p><p>“Hi,” Martin says.</p><p>Eventually, Jon reaches the spot that Martin has occupied by the railing, hands still in his pockets. Lifting his head to finally look at him. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. I thought I was early.”</p><p>Martin laughs quietly. “We’re both early.”</p><p>“You look…”</p><p>Jon looks at him, and Martin looks at him looking at him, and he thinks he’s going crazy. </p><p>They both speak in a simultaneous rush. </p><p>“… Very nice, Martin—”</p><p>“Bit scruffy, I know, but—”</p><p>Mouths hanging open. Then, a quiet laugh at their mutual interruption.</p><p>“Thank you,” Martin says. Has the temperature suddenly gone up out here? “You look amazing. Very smart, I mean,” he corrects. </p><p>A pause, where both of them seem to try and translate each other. </p><p>“Right. Well,” Jon nods. Eyes flitting up to the door behind them, shoulders tense. “After you, then.”</p><p>Jon lets Martin up the stairs first, holds the door open for him before leading him inside. It’s a proper Georgian townhouse in here; high ceilings with delicate cornices; a long corridor to the back courtyard, parquet flooring. On either side of him, glass walls with desks, empty of occupants. A few scattered champagne glasses by computers and on bookshelves. In front of him, a view of double doors, opened into the sunshine with people sitting on the steps. Jon’s figure, leading him towards it, wisps of black hair trickling down the nape of his neck and pristine suit collar. </p><p>The courtyard is wide, the rear faces of townhouses enclosing it and fairy lights strung between windows. Ivy crawling up the grey brick. Trestle tables of food and drink in a dogleg around the edge, guests in summer suits and summer dresses and sitting at circular tables, others standing and talking in groups, all of them seeming to know one another. A real, middle class garden party, Martin realises – and whilst it doesn’t feel uninviting, he does sense the imposter syndrome creeping. </p><p>Jon stands in close, arm against his. And the drunk feeling of being next to him rushes back, memories of walking through the rain under his umbrella. </p><p>“I don’t tend to do much in the way of socialising at these things,” Jon mutters conspiratorially. </p><p>Martin warms, leaning in and replying with equal furtiveness, “Let’s stick together then, yeah?”</p><p>Jon bows his head, a small smile on his lips, and they descend the steps into the throng. </p><p>It seems to be Jon’s plan to head to the drinks table. And Martin admits that he’s pretty happy with that arrangement, but the sound of someone calling for Jon stops him. </p><p>“Ah – I’ve found him, there he is – Jon. Sims, stop running away from me—"</p><p>He turns from the champagne table, looks at Martin with an apologetic crinkle around his eyes, and says, “Ah. Yes, there are a few people that I won’t be able to avoid, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Jon’s eyes drift over Martin’s shoulders and he makes a weary smile. Martin follows his gaze: the object of Jon’s weariness is a very tall, incredibly handsome man with a wide toothy smile, sharp but unthreatening. </p><p>“Fancy seeing you, here, boss.”</p><p>“I do come every year,” Jon complains, hands falling into his pockets again and rolling his eyes. A bit petulantly, Martin thinks. “No reason to act so surprised.”</p><p>“I suppose you just sulk so much every time, I expect you to decide you’ve finally had enough.” Dark, inquisitive eyes falling on Martin. “Hi – Tim Stoker. Jon’s agent – supposedly, if he ever answered my emails.”</p><p>“Oh, hi.” Martin shakes the offered hand. Firm, friendly. “I’m, er, Martin. Martin Blackwood.”</p><p>“Hi Er Martin Martin Blackwood,” Tim grins. “He dragged you along, then?”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>Jon tuts. “There was no dragging. I invited him, Martin accepted.”</p><p>Tim looks at Jon. Then, at Martin, brows raised. </p><p>“Yes, that is actually what happened,” Martin laughs. </p><p>“Got it. Well, be warned, Jon’s a real downer at social events.” Tim’s gaze holds for a moment longer, then back at Jon. Demands – “Why don’t you have a drink?”</p><p>“Well, I <i>was</i> one my way to get one for us both, but you interrupted.”</p><p>“Don’t let me stop you! No need to suddenly start listening to me now, you never have before.” Another wolfish grin at Jon, who scowls, and Tim pats Martin on the shoulder. “Good to meet you, mate. See you about. Make sure you both sit on mine and Sasha’s table, we’re the only interesting people here.”</p><p>“Sasha…?”</p><p>Tim leans in, points towards the back of the courtyard. A woman in wedge heels and naturally styled black hair. </p><p>“Jon’s editor. Not that anyone would know, since he’s been avoiding her…”</p><p>Martin frowns at Jon, who rolls his eyes. </p><p>“We’ve rescheduled a couple of meetings. Hardly the same as ‘avoiding’.”</p><p>“Not cool, Jon,” Martin says, although it’s mostly teasing. Tim waggles his eyebrows at Jon in a ‘told you so’ fashion. </p><p>“We will be sure to find you later, Tim.” Jon indulges in one more eye-roll, gestures for Martin to follow him to the drinks table. </p><p>“Table four!" Tim yells through the crowd. "Be there or be square!”</p><p>By the time Martin has returned his attention to Jon, he has a champagne flute offered to him. </p><p>For a moment, he thinks it’s best to turn it down. Tannins, and all that. He’ll have a killer headache tomorrow if he has too much. But then – screw it. He’s not planning on getting drunk.</p><p>***</p><p>Martin is fairly tipsy when Michael Shelley introduces himself. </p><p>It’s not really his fault that he’s getting drunk so quickly. Tim had tracked them down shortly after Jon and Martin had found a quiet corner to catch up and talk, bringing Sasha with him and a tray of drinks. And whilst Jon seemed put-out at having been interrupted, Martin was happy to meet some of Jon’s friends. And friends they seem to be – gently teasing and affectionate, whilst Jon looks on moodily. A mood that contrasts pretty starkly with the up-beat swing that’s playing on the speakers in the courtyard. Sasha and Tim form a bit of an alliance against Jon, and Martin feels compelled to come to his defence whilst they roast him. </p><p>“This isn’t even dressing up for you, though,” Tim laughs, gesturing with his glass to Jon’s suit. “I bet you have pyjamas more formal than this. Mr Five Hundred Year Old Jacket and Swede Brogues.”</p><p>“Oxfords,” Jon corrects. “I wear Oxfords, not brogues.”</p><p>“Ah, well. That changes everything,” Sasha agrees. </p><p>“I’ve seen him in jeans,” Martin jumps in.</p><p>A look of astonishment for Tasha (this is the name that Martin has established for their two-pronged attack on Jon). </p><p>“Jeans,” Sasha says evenly.</p><p>“Jeans?” Tim cries.</p><p>“Jeans,” Martin confirms. “They were black, so pretty smart, but still.”</p><p>“My god.” Tim blinks. “Next you’ll be telling me he has a TikTok account.”</p><p>“I do not have a TikTok account,” Jon bristles. </p><p>It’s too funny to imagine. Martin isn’t used to laughing so openly as this, but it’s very easy to feel at home with Tim and Sasha – and, of course, Jon. He’s snickering away with a hand in front his mouth, Sasha experimenting with TikTok handle names—</p><p>“Siminator2000? GrumpyAuthor87?—”</p><p>—when Jon’s eyes widen in apprehension. Head ducking, hand scratching his chin. </p><p>“Oh God, he’s coming over,” Jon mutters. </p><p>Tim blinks. “What?”</p><p>“No, God – never mind, it’s too late.”</p><p>When Martin turns to find the person in question, he has to crane his neck to see his face. </p><p>“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the archivist.”</p><p>Oh my God. Fuck. That’s Michael Shelley, poet laureate. All six foot eight of him, rings of blonde hair down to his shoulders and the same shit-eating grin as in all his photos. Wildly intelligent eyes, dizzyingly keen and fixed on Jon. </p><p>“Michael,” Jon grumbles in greeting. “I would appreciate it if you would stop calling me that.”</p><p>“But it’s my nickname for you,” the poet croons. </p><p>“We are not on nickname terms.”</p><p> A hostile silence, as the two writers engage in the Mexican standoff of staring competitions. Tim, trying not to get the giggles and hiding it badly behind his champagne flute. Martin tries to convey his confusion with Sasha, who is examining the bubbles in her prosecco closely. </p><p>And then, a laugh – a laugh that sounds like a bell ringing in a perfect arpeggio.</p><p>“Oh, you are so sensitive,” Michael says with a sigh. “I thought you would like the nickname. After all, it doesn’t take a stretch of imagination to see that your archivist protagonist is just a facet of your own personality through which you’re writing so… vicariously.”</p><p>Another laugh. And this time, Tim breaks, spluttering behind his glass. </p><p>“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sasha rolls her eyes at both poet and author, their stares unbroken. “Can we please just turn it down a notch? This is a summer party, not a pissing contest.”</p><p>And just like that, the tension breaks – Tim is laughing with his head tipped back, whilst Michael views Jon with intellectual interest. Jon, who is almost a whole foot shorter than him, turns his face away like a sulking teenager, scowling till Kingdom come. There’s something in the squaring of his jaw when he’s frustrated that’s pretty adorable. </p><p>“Is there any way I can attend one of these without being mocked to an inch of my life?” he demands.</p><p>Martin relaxes, nudges his plus-one. The smile he offers is small; the one he receives in return is genuine, resentful façade slipping a little. </p><p>“It’s our duty to roast you,” Tim explains, wiping his eyes. “Boss, you’re one of the most renowned authors in the world. Someone needs to remind you that you’re a nerd.”</p><p>“I barely need reminding.”</p><p>“It must be awfully dull, having the ground you walk on constantly revered,” Michael sing-songs. </p><p>A scoff. “As if you can talk. Everyone is absolutely terrified of you.”</p><p>“As it should be,” Michael shrugs. </p><p>“Jon, just think of it as our way of saying we care.”</p><p>“I don’t want you to –”</p><p>“And reminding you that you’re a human being, with human friends who want to see you and who you have <i>plans that you shouldn’t cancel</i> with.”</p><p>“And that life isn’t just about writing.”</p><p>“My writing isn’t even good, Tim.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>It’s Martin that says this, an exclamation that gets everyone looking. Author, editor, agent, and poet laureate. Staring at the baker down the road.</p><p>“Um,” Martin fumbles. “I mean, we’ve had this conversation. Your writing is good. Otherwise it wouldn’t have so many people reading it. How can you explain that?”</p><p>“Yeah, Jon, how can you explain that?” Tim orders. </p><p>“It’s commercial,” comes the simple, gruff response. Dark eyes turned to the stem of his flute. “Poor writing can hit a commercial… sweet spot. There are hundreds of terrible authors I could name who have made millions off their drivel, purely because it arrived at just the right time.”</p><p>Sasha cradles her chin mock-thoughtfully. “Yeah, you’re right. You really encapsulate what it is to be a commercial author.”</p><p>Tim explodes with laughter. Michael makes that unsettling chiming sound that’s meant to be a laugh. </p><p>“You’re not exactly Stephanie Meyer,” Martin agrees gently. </p><p>“I should hope not.”</p><p>At that, Michael suddenly turns to Martin, and just that small movement makes him flinch a little.</p><p>“I have been very rude.” A large hand, held out for a shake. “You are?”</p><p>“M-Martin. My name is Martin,” he manages. This is one of the most famous poets in the world, his verse is so twisted and screwed up that it kind of frightens everybody. Not exactly the sort of poetry you’d study at GCSE. “It’s amazing to meet you, Mr Shelley—”</p><p>A simpering chuckle. “Michael, please. I insist.”</p><p>Well, he’s not going to argue with <i>him</i>. </p><p>***</p><p>Jon is very drunk, now.</p><p>It’s largely because Michael keeps on refilling his glass without him noticing. Martin doesn’t seem to be faring much better, leaning his elbows on the table beside him and gossiping with great enthusiasm with Sasha. </p><p>Martin – here. With him. Looking like that, in a suit and so handsome. It had been so hard to imagine, with how used Jon is to seeing him in an apron. He suits blue very well. And he hasn’t abandoned him yet – Martin is still here, and more than that, he seems to be enjoying himself. He doesn’t appear to be going anywhere, and something in that makes Jon ache. That spot in his chest hurting, spreading beautifully through his veins and wrapping itself tight around his heart. </p><p>It had been a relief to see him fit in so well with Tim and Sasha. Their teasing can be annoying, sometimes, but – truthfully, Jon enjoys it as much as they do. Putting on a riled-up façade just to keep their strange demonstration of affection coming. And Martin had offered so much; he’d offered his own brand of teasing, and from time to time he had come to Jon’s defence. Now, speaking with a light voice with Sasha, chair drawn close to Jon’s. The darkening sky above his head, the lights of the courtyard making him look unreal. </p><p>He’s staring. He only knows this because he is distracted from the act by the pouring of red wine into his glass. </p><p>Michael leers his too-many-teeth smile, rioja in hand. </p><p>“Why are you trying to get me pissed?”</p><p>“You’re more entertaining when you’re drunk,” he replies simply, sitting back in his place on the other side of the table. </p><p>Very suddenly – he blames the alcohol – he wishes Gertrude were here. She was always so good with Michael, probably the only person he listened to. Jon watches as the poet catches someone’s eye in the crowd and waves them over, gesturing to the seat next to him – which had been occupied by a very boring Marketing Manager, now absent. </p><p>“Do you ever stop staring at people? You know it’s very creepy.”</p><p>Jon peers down to see Tim stabbing at the leftover food on his plate. The roast potato on the end of the fork swirling in puddles of gravy.</p><p>“It’s a habit I’ve never managed to kick,” he explains, “I wasn’t actually finished eating, you know.”</p><p>“Oh. Sorry. Listen, I grew up with a brother, you had to eat quickly or you didn’t eat at all. Suppose that’s just my own habit that I haven’t managed to kick.”</p><p>Wine glass poised at his lips. “I see.”</p><p>“So, what’s the deal with you and Martin?”</p><p>Jon chokes. A hand manages to stop the red wine from spilling down his white shirt. “<i>Tim</i>,” he warns in a hissing whisper. Martin is literally sat right next to him. He may be in a deep conversation with Sasha, but this is pretty brazen, even for him. </p><p>“<i>Jon</i>!” he mimics. “It wasn’t too complicated a question.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t share that with you, even if—”</p><p><i>Even if I knew the answer to that question,</i> he thinks. </p><p>Tim smiles, picking up on his hesitation. “So it’s more than friends?”</p><p>“What on earth makes you say that.”</p><p>“Well. Georgie is your ex, she used to come with you because she’s the closest person in your life – that’s my impression anyway – and now you’ve brought someone new. I mean, you didn’t even bring that tosser you called a boyfriend who ratted you out to Heat magazine, so this is a big deal –”</p><p>It’s a testament to how drunk he is that Jon stops Tim from speaking from kicking him. Hard.</p><p>“Ow! What the fuck!”</p><p>That gets the table’s attention. Michael’s expression is one that is far too knowing for Jon’s liking, whilst Sasha and Martin stop mid-sentence.</p><p>“What’s happening?” Martin asks with some amusement.</p><p>“Jon just kicked me!”</p><p>“You deserved it,” he mutters, returning to his wine. </p><p>And then Martin leans across him. He leans across Jon to speak to Tim, and something about that makes his head go totally blank. He has no idea what is being said, or about whom. It’s the wine, too, he’s sure, but it’s also the shock of having Martin in such close proximity, and he can’t help but stare. Martin’s conspiratorial smile and Tim’s mock expression of hurt. </p><p>It’s then that he realises that they’re probably talking about him. </p><p>“Stop it,” he bites.</p><p>Laughing. Nudging. Teasing. His wine glass, mysteriously empty. </p><p>“Oh, look at <i>this</i>.”</p><p>Another familiar voice, one that makes Jon want to roll his eyes so hard it hurts. He’s pouring another glass of red when he looks up and sees Helen Richardson, smiling like it’s Christmas as she bears witness to Jon’s drunken panic. </p><p>“You are too adorable when you’re tipsy,” Helen says sweetly.</p><p>“Oh, God,” Jon whines, rubbing his forehead. “Please, one poet laureate at a time.” </p><p>“You <i>are</i> sort of adorable when you’re tipsy,” Martin whispers.</p><p>Jon – God, he has no idea what to do with that. And the little smile on his face, and the way that he doesn’t sound at all self-conscious. It’s been a long time since he’s felt himself blush, but this is one of those moments. </p><p>What ruins is it the way Helen’s eyes fall on Martin, paralyzingly beautiful eyes searching him for a name with a growing smile. “Who is this?” </p><p>The glimpse of confidence falters in Martin’s smile. Jon jumps in and saves him. “This is Martin.”</p><p>That’s all he’s giving. Everyone seems to watching, waiting for him to expand. He doesn’t. Resolutely, he pours his wine. </p><p>Michael leans towards Helen, who has stolen the boring Marketing Manager’s seat. “We like Martin,” he says with a wide grin. And both their eyes fall on Jon. </p><p>Jon might be a smart man, but he is also a coward. There is no way he is going to address whatever those two <i>monsters</i> are insinuating. Instead, he’s going to look at the way Martin folds his napkin into quarters, then eighths, listen to him talk. The soft rises and falls of his voice, the edge of his Manchester accent slipping through. He listens, watches, and he drinks.  </p><p>The pudding course go by in a blur. </p><p>***</p><p>“Out! Out, out, out!”</p><p>“It’s only eight o’clock, nowhere will be open yet—”</p><p>“So let’s stay here, keep getting drunk, then go out—”</p><p>“We could go to the pub first?”</p><p>“It’s Friday night, it’ll be chock-a.”</p><p>The sky is moving around pleasantly. </p><p>Isn’t it funny, how summer evenings get dark so late? The sky goes a pale blue and the clouds go darker. Not in a rainy way, just in a sun-setting sort of way. And it’s probably cooler, except Jon doesn’t really know what with all the booze that’s warming him up right now. His friends –</p><p>His—</p><p>Yes. His <i>friends</i>. They’re all conspiring to venture out, head to a club, and he simply sits on the front steps of Magnus Ltd. and listens to them. Martin, sharing some university story with Helen, who seems positively delighted to be on the receiving end of this. Michael getting visibly bored by Sasha and Tim’s obvious flirting. It makes Jon warm, warm in his face and his heart all the way to the tips of his numbing toes. </p><p>“Good evening, Jon.”</p><p>Craning his neck, he sees that unmistakably cold gaze. </p><p>“Elias.”</p><p>“I’m very happy to see you having such a good time,” he says. </p><p>It almost sounds genuine. That’s what so insidious about Elias, it’s so easy to believe that he means it. But Jon doesn’t, not anymore; he turns his gaze back to his friends. Martin and Helen are looking at them, stony faced. </p><p>“I’m surprised you haven’t cornered me at all until now.”</p><p>A mirthless chuckle. “That’s a little dramatic.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>Elias nods slowly, steps back inside. Jon lets out a long sigh.</p><p>“Oh, and – Jon. I hope we’ll be seeing the next draft of your book, soon. I don’t want to rush you.”</p><p>He doesn’t bother turning to look at Elias. He knows very well that his eyes are conveying the opposite. The sound of his footsteps recedes, and Jon closes his eyes. </p><p>And he’s drunk enough that he’s not sure how long he sits there with his eyes closed, meditating – it’s only when he feels a hand slap his shoulder that they snap open. </p><p>“Alright boss?” </p><p>“Yes, Tim.”</p><p>“God, he’s a creep,” Sasha mutters.</p><p>“We’re going out,” Tim supplies. “<i>Out</i> out.”</p><p>Jon sighs. Across the road, Martin is lingering with Helen and Michael, a sight so incongruous that he sighs again. </p><p>“I’m almost thirty-nine years old,” he exhales. “I haven’t been clubbing in over a decade.”</p><p>“So? We’re single, childless and in our thirties – what is there to lose?”</p><p>And, well, that is sort of convincing. </p><p>He’s not sure how they end up in Clapham. </p><p>A train. Yes, they’d got the tube – they’d stumbled onto the train with all the other drunk inner-city-workers, Michael having to fold himself up in order to fit under the roof. And the train had started so abruptly that Jon had fallen right into Martin, who had caught him and –</p><p>There had been a lot of laughing. It had been nice.</p><p>And now he’s in Clapham, and they’re sitting at wooden bench outside a pub with ‘80s music playing inside, and he’s lighting a cigarette. Smoke drifting from table to table and mixing, pot-bellied beer drinkers and students and <i>Thank God It’s Friday</i>-ers, all together on the pavement with open glasses. And he can hear Sasha and Tim flirt outrageously, whist Michael flirts with some man on another table that none of them have met before, whilst Martin stares at the cigarette in his lips, whilst Helen rolls her own opposite him. </p><p>“Why are you still at Magnus?” Martin asks. </p><p>Jon measures the pink of his cheeks, the hazy gaze and parted lips. He feels the arm pressed against his. Then he turns his face away to blow the smoke in the opposite direction. “Gertrude liked my manuscript in 2014.”</p><p>“But why do you stay? Elias is so manipulative.”</p><p>Helen points her cigarette at Martin. “I like this one.”</p><p>“Well, it’s just that you must <i>see</i> how awful he is,” Martin continues. “Do you not realise how—?”</p><p>“Of course I realise.” He rubs his forehead, takes a slow drag. “I know it’s bad.”</p><p>“Then why don’t you leave?”</p><p>“Because I’m scared.” Has he ever admitted that, even to himself? That’s what that much wine will do to you. “I’m scared. I pretend I don’t know how bad it is, because I haven’t got a choice. I’m stuck in this situation, whether I like it or not.”</p><p>“You could change publisher.”</p><p>“It’s never so simple. If I move then it could affect my sales, and if it affects my sales…” Ah. Here we go. “I spent a long time with very little. When my grandmother died, I was effectively homeless. Georgie put a roof over my head and fed me, when she didn’t have much herself. I don’t ever want to be in that position again, and I don’t want to put the people I care about in that position, either.”</p><p>A haze of smoke. The pain of tears in his throat, his hand shaking as he takes another drag. </p><p>“Jon,” Martin breathes. </p><p>“And before you say it, I know that my friends are there for me, I know I’m not alone. And that I should accept their help. I have learned that, by now, but it’s easier said than done.”</p><p>“Aren’t you bored of it?” Helen suddenly demands.</p><p>He closes his eyes, shakes his head with a baffled frown. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Holding back so much. Putting so many limitations on yourself.”</p><p>“I don’t—”</p><p>“You lose nothing by leaving Magnus, other than upsetting a couple of people. Sasha would survive. Your books are popular enough. You have no clue how powerful your writing is, do you?”</p><p>He tries to think about it. The idea that he’s sabotaging himself isn’t totally new. But hearing it like that – well, Helen always tends to put things in strangely brutal terms. “I’m not sure I…”</p><p>“She’s right,” Martin asserts. And, God – the smell of bread – Jon just got a waft of it and it makes him more drunk than any rioja could. “You’re not doing yourself justice by staying there. I think you should go full-bastard and just leave, no apologies. Your books are so popular, I mean, you’re never going to be penniless again.”</p><p>“I know, I know – logically, I know that. It’s just –” </p><p>“I don’t understand why you’re punishing yourself,” Helen remarks distantly, blowing rings of smoke. </p><p>Jon scoffs. “Well, don’t hold back, will you?”</p><p>Her smile is scathing. </p><p>“Anyway. I’m not sure if I can. Contractually,” he explains. “It’s really not so simple as just leaving.”</p><p>“Fuck contracts.” Martin slaps the wooden table, points at Jon. “You deserve better. You’ve got to just get out there.”</p><p>“Cheers to that.”</p><p>Helen and Martin have made a bit of a bond, Jon remarks with some apprehension. And as they clink their pint glasses, Tim and Sasha are roused from their playfighting. Michael pays no attention, too interested in the man he has ensnared from the table across. </p><p>“What are we cheersing?” Tim asks, glass already raised. </p><p>“Jon leaving Magnus,” Helen explains.</p><p>There’s a moment where they all look at Sasha. And then, his editor nods. </p><p>“Yeah. Fuck that old white shithead.”</p><p>Jon finds himself raising a glass with a chorus of ‘<i>Fuck Magnus!</i>’. And, finally, he finds himself agreeing. </p><p>***</p><p>This club is awful and also perfect. The floors are sticky and light-up, the music is all 70s, 80s and 90s themed, and nobody in here is below the age of thirty. It’s brilliant, and Martin is having an amazing time jumping about to Human League. There are hen dos, too-old men in t-shirts, and then there’s them in their suits and party dresses. </p><p>Tim keeps on undoing more and more buttons on his shirt, Sasha fighting to do them up again whilst he shimmies out of her way. Michael and Helen are off somewhere in the distance, both of them tall enough to practically act as lighthouses in the crowd – he’s seen more than one person use Michael as a meeting post to reconvene with lost friends. </p><p>The best bit by far, though, is the way Jon has entirely stopped giving a shit. </p><p>If Tim’s dancing is aggressively awful, consisting of The Robot and The Running Man and Voguing, then Jon’s is just obliviously awful. His dancing is reminiscent of a lonely grandparent at a wedding, and it’s hilarious, but it’s sort of even more hilarious that he just doesn’t seem to <i>care</i> anymore, eyes largely closed and blindly going for it. </p><p>It’s too much. He loves him too much. </p><p>Martin takes out his phone. </p><p>
  <b>To: Baking Chat</b><br/>
<i>!!! hi guys!!! We’re out atm in Clapham, paryt wsa great, Jon is SO DRNUK????</i>
</p><p>Martin slips his phone into his trouser pocket. He looks up to find Tim challenging Jon to a lip sync of ‘Don’t You Want Me’. <i>Amazing</i>. Jon knows all the words, which shocks everyone. Martin’s clapping and whooping with Sasha, and it’s only when Tim starts trying to de-cloth again that the sync is interrupted.</p><p>“For God’s sake, Tim, keep your bloody clothes on!” Jon shouts over the music. </p><p>Martin is laughing, laughing so hard it hurts, and Jon turns to look at him – the biggest smile he’s ever seen on Jon’s face. </p><p>He checks his phone – another message. He hadn’t felt it vibrate. </p><p>
  <b>Baking Chat</b><br/>
<i>Georgie: are you perhaps a little ‘drnuk’ too?</i>
</p><p>He’s smiling as he types. </p><p>
  <i>he’s dancing with Tim and singing 80s music its amazing</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Melanie is typing…</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Melanie: pic or it didn’t happen</i>
</p><p>Well, he can certainly try. </p><p>Sasha is the only one dancing remotely normally. She looks a little mortified by Tim’s flailing, and looks even more mortified when the bouncer comes over and tells Tim to do up his shirt. Jon appears to be shouting something like <i>told you so</i>, but who knows, because now they’re both having a dance off. A terrible, terrible dance off. </p><p>So <i>this</i> is what drunk Jonathan Sims is like. </p><p>Martin manages to get a picture when the strobe light just about hits them; Tim’s eyes disturbingly red in the flash; Jon looking very serious, eyes closed and a frown as he’s mid grandad-dance; Sasha stood between them, expression even and weary. </p><p>He hits send. </p><p>Immediately—</p><p>
  <i>Melanie: Holy fuck<br/>
Georgie: ah, I see you’ve unlocked Drunk Jon</i>
</p><p>“Martin—”</p><p>Jon. Hands on his shoulder, hanging off him. And whilst Martin is definitely drunk, Jon is on another level. His jacket is missing, the white collar of his shirt crumpled, hair falling out of its tie. Eyes closed and a serious little frown that makes Martin laugh. </p><p>“You are <i>very</i> drunk,” he laughs. </p><p>“So are you.” Martin receives a messy poke on the chest. “Were you just taking a picture of me?”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, not sorry at all, no way. “Georgie and Mel wanted evidence.”</p><p>That takes a moment. ‘YMCA’ playing loudly as Jon drapes himself on Martin’s arm and frowns at him childishly. “Why’d they want evidence?”</p><p>“I told them. I told them you’re <i>dru-uuunk</i>.”</p><p>Martin laughs. Jon pokes him again. Forehead resting against Martin’s arm for support. </p><p>“Selfie! Selfie! Selfie!”</p><p>A face appears on his left, and a phone is pointed in their direction. “Selfie!” Tim demands again. </p><p>Martin manages to smile before the flash. </p><p>***</p><p>Hours go by in minutes. </p><p>Michael returns with Helen. Neither of them seem remotely drunk, and take great enjoyment in Jon’s dancing like they’re stumbled upon a circus act. Tim has made a compromise in his effort to take his shirt off, removing it and having replaced it with a mysterious woman’s bandeau – donated, Martin is guessing, by a drunk girl on her way out of the club. A hat has also been acquired, a sparkly fedora which Martin is now wearing and Tim keeps trying to steal from him.  </p><p>There may have been a club photographer accosting them at some point, but he can’t remember. </p><p>Martin remembers Jon staying by his side the entire time. He remembers feeling brave enough to take Jon’s hands and spin him around to ‘You Spin Me Right Round’ and he remembers Jon catching him when he’d slipped on someone’s spilled WKD. </p><p>He remembers his hands on his shoulders, staying there a beat longer than necessary. The closeness and the fumbling moment of stepping away. </p><p>Jon, miming that he wants a cigarette, and Martin following. </p><p>It’s cold outside. Or at least, it’s not boiling hot like it is on the dancefloor. The smoking section has a corrugated plastic roof, a couple of drunk hen-party girls bitching to each other about someone from work. There’s two plastic chairs, a little damp from the rain (it must have fallen when they were inside?) and they take a seat. </p><p>Jon is undone. Dishevelled in a way that Martin’s only ever dreamed of seeing, cigarette hanging out of his mouth and head tipped back, face angled at the leaking roof. Top button undone, showing his clavicle. He’s so hot it hurts his feelings.</p><p>“Thank you,” Martin says too loudly. He laughs as Jon winces. “Sorry, no music here, forgot.”</p><p>“<i>Mar</i>tin,” he mumbles around his cigarette, begrudging but affectionate.</p><p>“I mean – thank you for inviting me tonight… it’s been amazing, I’ve had so much fun… your friends are terrifying.”</p><p>Jon laughs. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it laugh. Jon laughing is one of those miracle moments that Martin rarely gets to see, and he wishes he was sobre so he could savour this one more. </p><p>“Yes, that they are. And… thank you for coming. I’m not used to people wanting to…” His sentence wanders off. “I’m getting used to people wanting to know me.”</p><p>He wants to hug him. Now would be the perfect time to hug him, but he doesn’t. He just watches the smoke trickle from his slightly parted lips. </p><p>“You look so cool,” he says. Then, seeing the way Jon’s eyes widen, now panicking, “Not just because you smoke! I mean. You’re totally uncool. Least cool person ever. But somehow, you’re also really cool.”</p><p>Jon stares at him. That look that makes Martin feel like he’s being translated, a look of distrust changing into trust, into surprise, into something else entirely. </p><p>“’Cool’,” Jon echoes. Then, with a small smile, “Well. I did used to be in a band when I’s at Oxford.”</p><p>“What?” Martin explodes.</p><p>“’S it so surprising?”</p><p>“I mean. Yes! Very? Like, very surprising! What did you play?”</p><p>“Bass.”</p><p>“No!” That is so hard to imagine, but that doesn’t mean Martin isn’t going to try. Jon as a bass player… God. He needs to keep it together. “That’s amazing!”</p><p>Jon just smiles to himself. “I’m glad I have a few surprises left in me.”</p><p>They sit and look at the lights of Clapham over the open edge of the balcony. </p><p>“Martin.”</p><p>Looking back at Jon. Dark eyes on his face, scanning him. No – it’s not so cold as scanning – he’s looking at Martin because he wants to. </p><p>Oh, if he weren’t so drunk. If this were another night, he’d lean in and kiss him. He’d tell him that he’s falling in love with him and that he’s terrified of that, that he’s terrified of losing everyone and being rejected and that he never wants Jon to leave. </p><p>If he weren’t so drunk, he’d probably notice the look in Jon’s eyes, like he wants to admit exactly the same thing. </p><p>Instead –</p><p>“I think I need to go home,” Jon whispers. </p><p>A moment of hesitation. Martin blinks, Jon is looking away, and the moment is gone. </p><p>“Yeah,” Martin agrees. “Yeah, same.”</p><p>Jon nods, and Martin smiles sadly to himself. </p><p>Tim and Sasha are on their way out themselves when they go to the cloakroom to collect their jackets (although Jon discovers that his is in fact missing). Tim is being wrestled into his unwillingly, wearing the hat that he stole from Martin. Sasha bears the responsibility with a wry smile, and she says goodnight to them both as she shoves Tim in a taxi. Helen and Michael are nowhere to be seen – presumably, they’d got bored and left, following their typically mercurial instincts. </p><p>That’s how Martin finds himself at the taxi rank, Jon at his side with another cigarette. Jon leaning against him in silence. </p><p>It’s nice. It shouldn’t hurt so much. </p><p>A taxi pulls up, winds down the window to reveal a face. “Where to?”</p><p>“You take this one,” Jon says. </p><p>His voice is so gentle. </p><p>“No – you can, I don’t mind –” </p><p>“Please, Martin. I’ll get the next.”</p><p>One last look at his face before he gets in. Jon looks as full of regret as Martin feels. And yet the smile they share is so good, so real and soft. So soft; a side to Jon that isn’t just biting and dark moods and defensiveness. Martin saw that side to him on the very first day, where so many people haven’t bothered to even try. </p><p>“Goodnight, Jon.”</p><p>He blinks. Nods. Then blinks again, rapidly. “Goodnight, Martin.”</p><p>He opens the door and slides into the back seat. The car pulls away, and he watches Jon watching back – sleeves rolled up and jacket draped over his arm. Standing hunched on the pavement with something wistful in his eyes, never looking away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>CW</b>: there are injuries in this, and a hospital trip. IT'S FINE! DON'T WORRY! He'll be fine, Jon just had a bit of a ..... run in. </p><p>This is basically just good old hurt-comfort.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s quiet in here. Dark, but in a lamplight kind of way; shadowy corners of the room, long beams of orange light stretching across bare tables. The smell of Dettol in the air and Martin’s hands dried out from cleaning products, the glass cabinets empty for the night. Stacks of indie magazines on the windowsill, behind the seat where Jon usually sits. </p><p>Martin stands in the doorway of the kitchen, switching the light off behind him. He hangs in the threshold of the bakery for a moment, looking at the quiet scene in front of him. Through the shop window, taxis streak by; cyclists in high-vis jackets; the occasional couple making their way home from dinner. Outside, the world goes on, and in here, everything sleeps. It should feel peaceful, but it doesn’t. </p><p>And going home won’t feel much better. </p><p>Loneliness has become a friend for Martin. The type of friend who gets offended when he doesn’t message back immediately – the type of friend who says they hate all of his other friends, wanting him for themselves. And he wishes he could say no to that friend, but he doesn’t know how to. He simply goes through these phases, sometimes; a stretch of time withdrawn inside himself. Even if it means he’s missed Jon insanely all week.</p><p>It’s a comforting sense of obligation that makes him turn round and switch the kitchen light back on. </p><p>Metal bowl, mixer. Martin dusts his hands with flour, begins tipping in ingredients, and he <i>makes</i>. </p><p>There’s so little room to bake back at mum’s old flat. When they’d moved from Bolton to London, she hadn’t had enough saved up to rent a proper flat, the cost of living down here so much higher. Martin had learned to cook in home-ec classes at school, in restaurant kitchens when he was meant to be washing the dishes for a few quid on the weekend. Baking at the flat was never an option, and not just because of the space. </p><p>No – baking is his refuge from the loneliness. Which may sound strange, since he’s opted to spend the night at work making bread by himself. But he’s alone either way, and it feels better here. The flat reminds him of his mother too much. And if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that other people, or the memories of other people, can make you feel far lonelier than being by yourself in a room. </p><p>Martin is wrist deep in brioche dough when he hears it – a quiet tapping next door, from the shop. </p><p>Images of horror movies flood his mind. The first five minutes, where some moron walks around their empty home calling <i>hello? Is anyone there?</i> when there’s clearly someone trying to break in and murder them. And he laughs at the thought, because that’s obviously not what’s happening here. It’s probably just someone outside, drunk and knocking on the window. </p><p>But then he hears it again – just as he turns off the mixer. And that isn’t an accidental noise, a cat knocking off a potted plant or some random person posting a flyer under the door. That is the sound of an insistent knock. </p><p>And – well. Obviously he hesitates. It’s nine o’clock in the evening and it’s way past opening times. It’s almost dark out. Deliveries only come early in the morning, so this isn’t –</p><p>“<i>Martin</i>…”</p><p>That gets him moving into the shop, shaking batter off his hands. </p><p>Through the window – it barely looks like him. And not just because of the blood on his face, but because of the way he’s leaning against the shop window, holding onto his flank. Streetlights bathing him in an unnatural orange.</p><p>“Jon? Jon – Fuck—”</p><p>Martin fumbles for the lock, hands shaking a little. He leaves little flecks of flour on the chain as he unfastens it.</p><p>Jon barges in the moment it opens.  </p><p>“Jon – oh my God, Jon? What— OK, OK, stop, come back, let’s get you sat down – here, there you go, there you go.”</p><p>Jon’s eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing uneven. Brows knit together like he’s concentrating hard. The hand on his rib is shaky. </p><p>“I’m just going to turn the light on, alright?”</p><p>A sort of grunt, a noise stuck in his throat. Martin scrabbles to the light-switch, and the shop is suddenly bathed in a stark, colour-bleaching light. A perfectly cleaned shop, and then Jon, sat one of the sparkling tables with his shoulders of his suit jacket heaving.</p><p>“What happened?” Martin manages. </p><p>The response isn’t immediate—just angry breathing noises through his nose as Martin ducks behind the till for the first aid kit. Then, “I was walking home… I’d gone to the shops, that’s all, and then… Lukas. It was one of Lukas’ men, he, er…” he hisses in sudden pain. “He cornered me—”</p><p>Martin springs up from behind the counter. “What?”</p><p>“That’s what he said,” he explains quite reasonably, voice tense. “I knew I’d upset some people with my book, but… this is absurd.”</p><p>Martin draws a chair in front of Jon and unzips the kit, before examining the blood on Jon’s face. “Where did he… get you?” </p><p>“I’m not sure, honestly – my rib, I think it’s broken – but as for the rest of it, it went in a bit of a blur.”</p><p>He looks completely washed out. The blood on his face… Martin can’t tell if it’s from a head wound, or something else. The only reason he hasn’t called an ambulance until now is because Jon’s put on such a good show of pretending it doesn’t hurt much, but now that he’s heard that he’s been attacked by one of Peter Lukas’ men, now that he’s seen the shaking of his hands and the way he purses his lips, how he hasn’t managed to open his eyes yet. </p><p>“Why didn’t you go straight to a hospital?” he demands, feeling suddenly pretty angry. </p><p>Jon hangs his head. “I broke my phone when I fell, I… I didn’t want to wait for someone to find my in that alleyway, I… Martin, I was so scared. I’m scared.”</p><p>His lips purse tighter, his shoulders hunching, eyes still tight shut. Breathing fast, close to hyperventilating. Martin grabs Jon’s free hand. And his other grabs his phone from his pocket, calls 999. </p><p>“I’m here. You’re alright, Jon, I’m here. Just hang on, we’ll get you sorted out.”</p><p>The phone, pressed to his ear. This is the scariest thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s called ambulances before, but this is – this is an attack. Jon isn’t safe, in fact he’s not sure either of them are right now—</p><p>“<i>Hello, emergency services.</i>”</p><p>“Um- ambulance, please. Police too, maybe – yeah. Ambulance, though,” he babbles. </p><p>He doesn’t look away from Jon at all throughout the whole thing. He only lets go of Jon’s hand to wash the blood off his face with an antibac-wipe, goes through all the questions with the woman on the other end of the line. <i>Is he conscious? Is he lucid? Can he remember his name? Is he sitting or lying down?</i> And Martin answers them as calmly as he can. All the while, seeing how pallid Jon’s skin has gone makes him feel like the blood has left his own face, stomach churning.</p><p>Jon doesn’t look like this. He isn’t <i>meant</i> to look like this, face bloody and expression closed off against the pain. </p><p>The ambulance arrives whilst he’s still on the phone. Martin waves the paramedic in, the door still unlocked, and at that point, he loses the plot of what’s happening. He’s not on the phone anymore; the paramedic is leading Jon into the ambulance—</p><p>“Martin.”</p><p>It’s just one word, just his name, but he hears the plea in it. A gruff, determined call of his name that says he needs him, and Martin isn’t sure that he could never say no to that voice, not ever. </p><p>***</p><p>It’s quiet. Not like the emergency services waiting room, which was giving Martin a headache; here, in the smaller X-ray wing, he’s almost the only one. There’s a little girl playing with some old lego bricks, her mother whispering on the phone. A big window with a view of the ambulances coming in and out, of a smoker’s bench. Martin rolls up a copy of Good Housekeeping and taps it against his knee. </p><p>“Martin? Martin—”</p><p>Georgie. She’s wearing pyjama bottoms and a trench-coat with Nikes, hair bundled up on the very top of her head. Martin stands and opens her arms, and she immediately crashes into him, arms tight around his shoulder blades. </p><p>“What the fuck happened,” she says, muffled against his chest.</p><p>“He…” Martin looks over his shoulder at the mother and child, talking to each other out ear-shot. “He was attacked. The Lukas’ aren’t happy with him, apparently.”</p><p>She peels away slowly, and he expects to see fear – instead, she looks furious, and it almost makes him laugh. </p><p>“Those fuckers,” she exclaims, a bit too loudly considering the child present. “What kind of pissbaby sends someone to attack an author because they made a shitty allusion to them in their <i>shitty</i> crime novel?”</p><p>“I know.” Not the time to defend Jon’s writing. “I can’t really believe it.”</p><p>Georgie shakes her head, blinking in amazement. They both collapse into the waiting room chairs. </p><p>Martin examines the little sushi rolls on Georgie’s pyjama bottoms. </p><p>She starts to laugh. </p><p>“What?” he asks, surprised but feeling a smile coming on. He’s tired, and the mania is catching. </p><p>“It’s just… Jon is such a nerd. It’s not like he’s Jason Bourne or anything. It’s so, so stupid that they think he’s a threat.”</p><p>And then she starts really laughing, face hidingbehind her hands and shaking her head, until Martin can’t hold it back either – its contagious, and suddenly he can’t breathe he’s laughing so much. </p><p>When they both fall quiet, the sound of the wall clock ticks too loudly. The laughter falls flat in his stomach, and he feels the pain in his throat like he wants to cry. </p><p>“You know the only reason he went on that night out is because of you, don’t you?” Georgie asks suddenly. </p><p>Martin stares at the old, ‘90s playset in the corner of the waiting room. Hand still wrapped around Good Housekeeping. Then, measuring Georgie, who is playing with the handles of her handbag. “Sorry?”</p><p>She breathes out slowly. “Jon doesn’t trust easily. He’s very paranoid. And the thing is, he sort of has good reason. I’m sure you’ve know a bit about his childhood.”</p><p>“A little,” he replies with a swallow. </p><p>“He’s suspicious of people who try to get close to him. He’s scared of them, he doesn’t know what to do with affection. I mean, that’s part of the reason we all tease him to shreds, it’s pretty much all he’ll allow. But you.” Georgie smiles at her handbag. “He genuinely opens up to you. You open him up.”</p><p>He doesn’t know how to feel. It’s so much to absorb. This strange, complex man that he loves. The memory of a selfie in a nightclub, Tim beaming and Martin smiling with his eyes closed and Jon, frowning petulantly. </p><p>“I don’t know what… I haven’t…” he shrugs. </p><p>“You are different,” Georgie asserts. “You’re just as stubborn as him. I think that’s why you’re different.”</p><p>Martin exhales a laugh. “That’s true, I suppose.”</p><p>“Just. Just don’t break his heart, alright?”</p><p>“I—” Martin laughs again, nervously. “You think I’m going to break <i>his</i> heart?”</p><p>And then she looks at him, deadly serious. “Maybe not. But I need to know you won’t, he can’t take anymore hurt.”</p><p>Martin really doesn’t cry often. But there are times, sometimes, when he feels his throat go tight like he might. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I understand. I promise I won’t hurt him.”</p><p>For a long moment, they look at each other. Georgie measures him, nods minutely.</p><p>“Hi—is there a Martin…?”</p><p>He stands up too quickly. There’s a doctor poking around the edge of the door to Jon’s exam room. “Yes, that’s me.”</p><p>“Come on in.”</p><p>“Can – sorry, can my friend…?”</p><p>“If you want,” he nods at Georgie, leaves the door ajar. </p><p>The walk to that room is slow. Like a nightmare where you can’t run away, it takes too long to get there. And then he steps inside, the sharp smell of disinfectant and the shine of sparkling linoleum flooring. And Jon, sat up on the exam table, arms limp at his sides and head turned to view them. White strips of tape holding stitches on his forehead.</p><p>“Martin,” he breathes. </p><p>The relief in that sound goes straight to Martin’s heart, moves his feet until he’s falling into the chair by the table and taking his hand. “Are you alright? How are you feeling?”</p><p>A small smile. “Like I’ve been kicked repeatedly in the ribs. But otherwise, fine. I’m <i>fine</i>, Martin,” he repeats, probably seeing the way his face crumples. </p><p>Georgie sits at the edge of the table. “Well, this is fun.”</p><p>“Georgie.” A smile in his voice. And Martin sees that his eyes are a little hazy. “You’re here.”</p><p>“I am,” she says slowly, with some amusement. “Are you maybe a little high, Jon?”</p><p>He frowns. “No. I took the prescribed pain killers,” he pouts.</p><p>“They... may make him a bit drowsy,” the doctor explains with a tinge of amusement.</p><p>Martin laughs, and – there it is. A tear in his eye, which he wipes away. “I’m so relieved, Jon. I was so scared.”</p><p>“I was <i>terrified,</i>” Jon asserts. He rolls his head to look at Martin. Forehead wrinkling in concern. “Martin. You’re crying.”</p><p>He huffs, turns his face away. “You were attacked, Jon. It’s been an emotional evening.”</p><p>A hand on his face. Martin feels his cheek being turned to look at Jon, who’s expression is relaxed and sleepy. “Don’t cry,” he whispers, thumb stroking sensitive skin above his cheekbone. </p><p>It freezes Martin in place. Jon’s eyes fall closed, and Martin watches, transfixed, as his eyelashes flutter and his lips part.</p><p>The voice of the doctor gives him a shock. “He has two broken ribs and a lot of bruising, a bit of a concussion, but he’ll be alright. No internal bleeding, so he’s more than welcome to go home if he’s desperate to – although, I’d like to have him here overnight to keep an eye on his concussion. And, well, you can see he's a bit out of it.”</p><p>“Then let’s do that,” Georgie nods. “He should stay the night. Silly bastard, how did you get yourself into this?” she asks an unresponsive Jon.</p><p>Martin holds the hand that’s on his face, holds it there and watches Jon fall asleep against the raised exam table. </p><p>“The police have been alerted,” the doctor continues. “They said they would send someone over soon for a statement.”</p><p>Martin nods. He strokes that hand and breathes out slowly. “Oh, Jon.”</p><p>***</p><p>When he wakes up, there’s a knock at the door. </p><p>He isn’t sure whether it’s the knock that wakes him up, or the TV that Jon is watching. He’s sat up in the hospital bed, legs crossed over each other and arms folded, frowning at the news. Martin sees Jon’s brows raise. </p><p>“Come in.”</p><p>Georgie and Tim step in. Martin sits up in his seat.</p><p>And then, two women follow. He doesn’t recognise them, and they aren’t wearing police uniforms. </p><p>“Who are they?” Martin demands, voice groggy and a bit more grumpy than he’d intended.</p><p>They all turn to look at him, a little surprised, like they’d had no clue he was there, hiding in an armchair at the back corner. </p><p>“Martin. You’re awake,” Jon remarks. </p><p>“<i>You’re</i> awake,” Martin replies. </p><p>And whilst he could gaze at Jon all day – who looks worlds better, no longer pale and bloody – he finds himself looking the two newcomers up and down. The woman on the left has cropped bleached hair, a pink scar on her jaw and broad shoulders. She’s shorter by far than the woman on the right, who’s in a black denim jacket and hijab, an even look of professionalism. </p><p>“Should we wait outside?” Tim asks with an awkward smile. “Yeah, you know what? We’ll just pop out here.”</p><p>He looks at Martin, who moves to get up.</p><p>“No—stay,” Jon rushes. Blinking, voice going quiet, “If you’re alright to, that is.”</p><p>A rush of something selfish, love and vindication all mixed together. Martin slowly sits back down in the armchair whilst Georgie and Tim recede. The two women give them a synchronised nod as the door closes. </p><p>The blond gives Martin a cold, assessing look. The sound of a nurse’s announcement echoing in the corridor. Then, she steps towards Jon’s bed, hands in jeans pockets. “I’m Daisy Tonner. This is Basira Hussein.”</p><p>Jon looks at them, expression slipping into something calculating. “You speak like the police. But you aren’t police, are you? You didn’t introduce yourselves with your rank.”</p><p>The flicker of a smile on Basira’s face. “Knew he’d be smart.”</p><p>“Smart or not, he could be dead without us,” Daisy remarks. “<i>Ex</i>-police.”</p><p>“Ex?” Martin asks, sitting up straight. “Were you kicked out or something?”</p><p>Two measuring looks in Martin’s direction. </p><p>“The police are a corrupt organisation,” Basira explains. “We don’t work on their terms.”</p><p>Daisy takes a step towards the bed. “We’ve been assigned as your bodyguards.”</p><p>Martin stands up, finds himself settling on the bed besides Jon, whose fingers fuss with the edge of the bedsheets. </p><p>“I see,” he says. Then, “You’re afraid that something like this might happen again?”</p><p>“It’s more than possible,” says Basira. “Can’t go through the normal avenues with this sort of stuff. The Lukas family have influence everywhere – government, police.”</p><p>“Publishing houses,” Jon supplies with sick amusement. </p><p>“Your boss, Elias,” Basira agrees. “He’s a piece of work.”</p><p>“So… does this mean I can’t publish with them anymore?”</p><p>“If you’re smart,” Daisy confirms coolly, the slightest of Welsh accents slipping through. “Your books are the least of your priorities.”</p><p>“I suppose so,” Jon admits. He looks at Martin, clearly a little afraid, and Martin puts a hand on his arm. “So. What now?”</p><p>“You lay low for a while. We have a safehouse ready for you. A few weeks of isolation whilst we make new living arrangements for you in London. Your agent already has a plan in place to move you to another publisher. If we nip this in the bud now and make sure you won’t do anything this stupid again, then the Lukas’ should lose interest. Bigger fish to fry.”</p><p>They both look at Daisy like she’s insane.  </p><p>“This is ridiculous,” Jon exhales, almost sobs, his hand framing his face. “I didn’t even do anything wrong. I didn’t name anyone, it was completely anonymous – it’s not as if my book was an attack on the Lukas family, they were fictional characters, I was just—”</p><p>“Too late for that now,” Basira interrupts, voice even. </p><p>“So, you’re just sending him to a safehouse in the middle of nowhere?” Martin argues. </p><p>“Martin…”</p><p>“No, this isn’t OK,” Martin laughs. “This is insane. How could this have happened in the first place? He’s not an international bloody-well criminal! Things like this don’t happen—”</p><p>“But it has happened.” Jon looks at him. “If this is what will keep me safe—”</p><p>“Of course. No, obviously you have to. You have to go, it’s just. This is…”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Jon’s dark, serious eyes. Then, they both look back at the two bodyguards.</p><p>“How does this work, then?” Jon finally says with weary acceptance. “You follow me around everywhere?”</p><p>“For a while,” Daisy says. “We take you to the safehouse. We have it all set up so security will recognise your heat signature. Anyone else who tries to approach, we’ll get an alert. We’ll be in a nearby location.”</p><p>“This is mad,” Martin breathes. </p><p>“So, you’ll be watching me from a distance.”</p><p>“Not in the literal sense. Video camera and all that – they’re a bit dated. Like Daisy said, it’s all heat signatures and movement sensors, everything’s done with biometrics now. Less invasive than binoculars.”</p><p>“<i>Less</i> invasive,” Jon scoffs. </p><p>“It’s either this or risk getting jumped again.”</p><p>“I know, I know, it’s just…” he rubs his face. “A lot to take in.”</p><p>A beat of silence. The two guards share the briefest of looks. </p><p>“We’ll leave you to let it sink in,” Daisy says. “You’ve been officially discharged so don’t take forever saying your goodbyes. The car is waiting outside, we took the liberty of packing a few essentials from your flat.”</p><p>“You broke into my flat?” Jon grits.</p><p>“Your ex-girlfriend lent us the key. In the interests of your safety.”</p><p>Jon has no response to that, and honestly, Martin isn’t sure what to say, either. So with one last perfunctory nod, Daisy and Basira exit. They leave them side by side on the bed, elbows touching and the sound of a bird outside the window, its nest in the drainpipes. Martin can see it through the slats of the blinds. </p><p>“Well,” Jon breathes.</p><p>“Jon,” Martin exhales. Looks at him – the chapped lips and stitches on his head. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”</p><p>They sit for a little while. Martin listens to the sound of Jon breathing, and he has a feeling that Jon is doing the same; finding something human to listen to in all this chaos. </p><p>And then, it begins to settle on him.</p><p><i>He doesn’t need you anymore</i>. The voice of that small thing in his mind, when hope has fled; the voice of his mother. <i>He won’t want you around in all of this, it’s gone way beyond you. Just leave now before it hurts too much.</i></p><p>And God, he wants to stay. He would sit in that armchair forever at Jon’s side, if it did any good. But it doesn’t; setting yourself on fire to keep others warm. He wants to stay with Jon wherever he goes, but this has become more complicated than unrequited feelings now – Jon’s life has become more complicated, and Martin realises that, like everyone else he’s loved, he doesn’t fit in it anymore. </p><p>“I should leave you to think,” Martin croaks.</p><p>“Oh,” Jon says. Such a simple sound, but it’s enough. “Alright… alright.” </p><p>The bed creaks, the sheets rustling when he stands up. He turns and looks at Jon, and he’s almost persuaded to stay by the pensive look on his face. But he knows this is probably the right thing to do, for both of them. </p><p>That night out. He’d let himself imagine that Jon had feelings for him; he’d been seconds away from telling Jon everything under the corrugated roof of that smoking area, and that had scared him so much that he’d allowed the isolation pull him away, away from the risk of rejection and heartbreak. It’s easier to love at a distance, easier to occasionally make cups of tea and give free cakes than open up completely. </p><p>
  <i>You're just Martin. Martin the baker. He doesn't need you, now.</i>
</p><p>He clears his throat. “See you later, Jon. Travel safe, wherever it is you’re going.”</p><p>It hurts, how empty he feels. Reaching for the door handle, he— </p><p>“Come with me.”</p><p>Hand frozen in front of the handle. Turning around – Jon is looking at him, eyes wide and wild and challenging. </p><p>“What?” Martin laughs. </p><p>“To the safehouse. Come with me.”</p><p>“I—” Treacherous hope. Could…? “I don’t even know if I <i>could</i>--”</p><p>“Georgie will give you time off, I’ll see to it.”</p><p>“That’s not what I mean.” <i>No, no, no. Don’t hope</i>. “You saw those two, Daisy and Basira— they’re really scary, I wouldn’t want to piss them off, Jon.”</p><p>“They’re employed by me, now. I’ll make it work. Martin, we could go together.”</p><p>Martin hovers by the door. So lightheaded he could float away. <i>We could go together, we could go together, we could go together.</i> </p><p>Oh, God. There isn’t any going back from this. </p><p>“Are you sure you’d want me around?”</p><p>“I’m positive,” Jon says with certainty. </p><p>He looks at him, sat up in bed with the sheets scrunched up in his fists, eyes wide and lips pursed in that typical Jon determination. It takes him right back to last week, and the strange, wistful look in his eyes as he’d watched Martin’s taxi leave. </p><p>
  <i>Maybe he does want me.</i>
</p><p>Martin sighs, shakes his head. “Yes. OK.”</p><p>Jon’s lips part, face slack. “Really?”</p><p>“W- yes? You sound so surprised.” A flare of irritation. Fucking hell, Jon has no clue, does he? “Should I <i>not</i> come?”</p><p>“No, no! I’m. Honestly, I’m relieved,” Jon breathes. “The last thing I want to do is put you in danger, but… well. It’s possible you’d be safer, with those two keeping an eye on you as well. I— I just thought, maybe, you’d call me insane. That you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me now, with all of this happening.”</p><p>He could laugh, how twisted Jon’s got it. </p><p>“No, Jon. I’m here.” He opens the door, lingers a moment before stepping out. “I’ll meet you in the car.”</p><p>***</p><p>Jon isn’t sure what he would have done if he’d said no. </p><p>The journey is long. Twelve hours with two breaks, using cash, no card. Daisy and Basira swap driving duty, whilst Martin and Jon sit mostly in silence at the back, save for the occasional muttered conversation. The atmosphere feels too tense to talk. </p><p>Basira hadn’t wanted Martin to come. She’d been adamant. Daisy said it didn't really matter either way. The moment Basira gave in and let Martin into the backseat, she’d given him a warning glance in the rear-view mirror. That has silenced both of them for most of the journey. </p><p>Daisy, meanwhile, has chosen to contrast this mood by putting on BBC iPlayer and listening to several episodes of The Archers back to back. It’s driving Jon to the point of drinking, but when Martin starts sharing his thoughts on various characters, Daisy offering her own view on the current side-plot, Jon finds it strangely comforting listening. Sort of addictive. </p><p>Isn’t life strange? Yesterday, he’d been working on his manuscript and gone down to the shops. Now, he’s on his way to a safehouse after being kicked about by a British crime family’s thug – and listening to The Archers. </p><p>With Martin, at least. </p><p>Night falls, and Jon manages to sleep a little, head against the window. </p><p>After about eight hours, they stop off somewhere north of the border. A shitty little petrol station just off the moors, the hills rolling and the rain coming down in a fine mist. Jon sits with his legs hanging out of the car door, a hand on his ribs and a cigarette in his hand. Feeling better today, at least; he’s lucky that the fracture isn’t in a place that makes breathing too painful. </p><p>Martin stands in the rain, the bracken up to his knees and his face tilted towards the sky. And Jon thinks, with a breaking heart, that he looks terribly alone.</p><p>***</p><p>This is more remote than anywhere Jon has ever been. The kind of remote that reminds him of Scandinavian crime dramas. Rolling highlands and great expanses of water for miles, dark forests and rugged coast lines, birds of prey circling overhead. Daisy and Basira have dropped them off at the bottom of a rocky B-road, with a glittering loch on their right and endless hills on their left.</p><p>“Well. Here we are, then,” Jon huffs. </p><p>Martin snorts, taking Jon’s bag in his free hand and walking up hill. “Where, exactly?”</p><p>“Scotland.”</p><p>“Yeah, I saw the big ‘Welcome to Scotland’ sign,” he laughs. </p><p>“Yes, well, other than that… I’m not sure.”</p><p>The road cracks underneath their shoes as they walk up the narrow road. Evidence of cows having been here recently, footprints in the mud and wire fencing on either side of them. The wind whips from over the loch, pouring down the mountains and picking up their hair, the burning orange of a sunrise overhead. Their sleepless feet take them forward. </p><p>“Oh, look.”</p><p>Jon follows Martin’s hand. A cottage. The type of Scottish cottage that’s roofed with old thatch, that has thick walls and deep inset windows to weather any storm; no garden around it, save for the surrounding hills and the view of the loch. It looks like a lego brick, dropped and forgotten on the landscape. </p><p>Martin raises the key that Daisy had given him, a long, old thing that’s turned black with age. The wood of the door creaks, and with a shove, they’re inside. </p><p>Small. Cosy, for sure. An AGA in a kitchenette for central heating, as well as a little fireplace with some fresh wood. A two-seater sofa and an armchair, stone flooring that looks like its seen hundreds of years of footsteps. Old, warped windows. A narrow set of stairs into the converted roof space. One door, to the right of them, left ajar and revealing the corner of a little bed. There doesn’t seem to be evidence of anything even remotely biometric; the security here must be very well hidden. There’s a thin veil of dust over the mantelpiece, floating specks caught in the sunrise.</p><p>Martin sets down the bags slowly; a shine in his eyes that evokes in Jon the feeling of spotting a lighthouse, far-out at sea. The first sighting of something bright in Martin since the taxi had pulled away. </p><p>“Look at this place,” Martin breathes. </p><p>“Yes.” Jon is staring. He realises it then, and manages to look away before Martin notices. Then, a little less distantly, “Yes. It’s… quaint.”</p><p>“It feels old.” Something in the way Martin says it makes it seem like that’s the best possible compliment. “I’m going to look upstairs.”</p><p>Jon nods, silent, as he watches him creep up the stairs carefully, as if navigating a doll’s house. </p><p>A long, tired exhale. <i>I’m not sure if this was a good idea,</i> he thinks, eyes closed as he listens to the sound of Martin’s footsteps, the ceiling talking in creaks and susurrations. </p><p>The kitchen barely qualifies as a kitchen. It is a stove and an AGA unit, with pots hanging above the sink and plates behind a flower-patterned curtain with smoke stains. The fireplace hasn’t been cleaned since the last winter someone was here – whenever that was – and Jon pushes the ash away to make way for new wood. At some point within the twentieth century, at least, someone had come to install a bath upstairs and a second bedroom. But there isn’t a washing machine, nor is there internet. Safehouses don’t tend to be very luxurious, he remarks, as he strikes a match and tries to light a loose splint peeling off a log. The only reason he knows about such a thing is through research for his crime series. </p><p>A sigh. Yes, that little thing. The reason he’s here at all. </p><p>Why did he drag poor Martin into this? Just because he was frightened, lonely? This has taken a kind of selfishness that Jon didn’t realise he had in him; he’s known himself to be the type of selfish to instead push friends <i>away</i>, not cling onto them. </p><p>Hands spread out in front of the small flame, then blowing on it carefully, kneeling against the stone floor. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked Martin to join. They’ve been growing so close, but then, this week things had felt strange between them – not to mention that this is a fairly big step, to spontaneously invite someone to a remote cabin in Scotland when they’ve only known each other just over a month. Reckless, uncharacteristically reckless. And yet there’s something about Martin that makes him reach out, that makes him crave a comfort he’s never truly known. </p><p>Will Martin resent him for asking him to join? Has he made a mistake? He’d just been so – <i>scared</i>, and—</p><p>“The ceilings a little snug up there—”</p><p>Jon looks over his shoulder with a start. Martin descends the steep stairs slowly, watching his step. </p><p>“—so I was wondering – if you’re OK with it that is, um, if you wouldn’t mind me taking the downstairs room? Just because.” He gestures to himself. “You know.”</p><p>“Ah. Of course,” Jon manages. </p><p>He looks back at the fireplace. The flame is dying fast. He takes the poker and nudges the log a little, until the white embers split from the wood and catch onto the rest of the pile. It starts to crackle and smoke promisingly. </p><p>“Martin.”</p><p>Behind him, the sound of Martin’s socked footsteps pauses. Cautiously, “Yeah?”</p><p>“Do you think…” He can barely stand to say it out loud. But he has to. “Do you think I’ve put all of you in danger?”</p><p>The fire spits with life. Outside, the sky turns brighter. </p><p>A sigh. “Jon.”</p><p>“I was careless and I – I may have endangered the people I care about, all because of a stupid, <i>fucking</i> book—”</p><p>“<i>Jon</i>–”</p><p>“This wasn’t meant to happen,” he laughs sadly, staring at the growing fire until his eyes go dry. “I was meant to be responsible, to, to pay Georgie back for everything she’s done for me, I was meant to be able to do this on my own and instead I’ve put you all in danger – what if someone followed me back to the bakery, Martin? What if they find Georgie or Melanie? What have I done?”</p><p>“Woah, woah. OK—”</p><p>It comes flooding. A guilt that has always, always followed Jon throughout his whole life. For as long as he can remember, a great wave that’s sat in the horizon, promising to be there wherever he went, however far he ran. Something huge and crushing, and it drowns him. Face in his hands, the urge to sob stuck in his throat. </p><p>He feels warm, dry hands on his wrists. Dried from washing regularly in between baking batches of bread. Warm, from simply being Martin. Those hands pry Jon’s away from his face, eyes left shut. </p><p>“Jon, you're, you're just being paranoid. They'll be fine. This isn’t your fault. Nobody blames you– you weren’t in control of this. There's nothing you could have done differently.”</p><p>“I could have not written that bastard book,” Jon grits, eyes so tightly shut he sees stars. “I could’ve written a different story.”</p><p>“But you didn’t. And it’s OK that you didn’t.”</p><p>“How can you say that?” And at that, Jon finally looks – brown eyes, both gentle and firm at once. Knees touching as they kneel in front of the fireplace. “Martin, we’re here because I pissed off the most notorious British crime family in a century. How is it OK?”</p><p>A flash of irritation, and it suits Martin so well. Jon almost smiles. “Listen – yeah. Maybe if you hadn’t written that book, or wrote what you wrote, then nobody would’ve come for you. Right? But then maybe something else would’ve happened down the line instead. And even if it didn’t, that doesn’t mean this is your fault. You know who’s fault it is? Peter Fucking Lukas.”</p><p>Jon laughs bitterly, shaking his head.</p><p>“Because he’s the one who attacked you! Right? If anyone’s to blame, it’s the madman who sends someone to beat up an innocent author.”</p><p>Logically, yes. But the guilt. Oh god, the decades of guilt, of desperate, irrational guilt that says <i>everything you touch breaks and it’s your fault.</i> And there is no punishment that Jon can think that could fit that crime, none except for isolation.</p><p>So why did he bring Martin here?</p><p>“This isn’t, your, <i>fault</i>.”</p><p>“I should never have written any of it,” Jon whispers, staring at their knees. “I should never write anything again.”</p><p>Martin’s hands still on Jon’s wrists. “Well, then. I think you’d make a lot of people very sad. Including yourself.”</p><p>He wants to pull away and bite and scratch and push Martin away, but he also can’t think of anything worse. Instead he sighs, lets his eyes fall shut again.</p><p>“Come here.”</p><p>He falls into Martin’s arms easily. The hand on his back spread wide, warm like a patch of sunshine through a window. The material of his t-shirt is worn, softened by age. It smells like detergent.</p><p>“Not everything in the world is your fault.” Martin’s voice is quiet beside his ear, ticklish. “And even if the whole world burned to the ground tomorrow because you wrote one single book,” he laughs – Jon huffs – “then it wouldn’t be your <i>fault</i>. If there’s one thing I’ve learned – and I might not know much, but – if there’s one thing, it’s that life’s never that simple.”</p><p>It takes him a moment. The crushing recedes until he can breathe again. It ebbs away until he can lift his arms enough to lay them on Martin’s back, thumb on the edge of his shoulder blade and his nose buried in the material of his t-shirt. The fire crackles, and they kneel there until Jon thinks they could become a part of the cottage themselves.</p><p>***</p><p>This bath is probably about two thousand years old, but it’s still functional – even if he did have to boil kettles of water to fill it up. </p><p>Bubbles of shampoo stuck to his shins, and Jon listens to the sound of the radio downstairs. It’s been a long day; they’d arrived that morning at the cabin, and the rest of the day had been spent napping and walking and food shopping in the nearby village. Sitting and watching the fire burn. Moments of quiet, moments of conversation, moments of playing scrabble and wanting to tear his hair out as Martin coquettishly spells <i>superfluous</i> across the board. </p><p>The stitches on his forehead pulse. His headache left last night in the car, and since he’s been taking pain killers, it hasn’t come back at all. His rib hurts more; standing seems fine, but sitting in the bath like this feels uncomfortable, like something barbed is stuck in his bones. Jon winces as he slides further into the water, hands gripping the edge of the metal tub. Feet poking out the other end. </p><p>Chart music drifting from downstairs. Martin, humming along surprisingly tunefully. Jon smiles at the beams of the roof above, the old light dangling above without a lampshade. He lets his eyes close.</p><p>Daisy and Basira had apparently decided not to pack pyjamas. <i>Non-essential items</i>, perhaps, so he dries off and steps back into his jeans and a fresh shirt – a little gingerly, his rib giving him some argument for it. His room, just opposite the little washroom, is similarly tiny – slanting ceilings that he can’t stand up straight in, a bed that just about qualifies as double, occupied by his bag. He tries to find a comb, but it doesn’t look like Daisy thought that was too important, either. </p><p>The stairs are steep and narrow enough that he needs to be careful not to miss one and tumble down them. On his right, the fire still seems to be going. The sound of the radio being turned off gradually, and a smell. That smell—</p><p>“You’re baking?”</p><p>Jon steps into the living room-kitchen. Martin, jumper sleeves rolled up and face slack in surprise when he turns to look over his shoulder. He holds a white cloth, hovering above a pot of boiling water. Soft eyes scanning Jon’s face, the mess of his towel-dried hair. </p><p>“Hi,” Martin breathes, looking away. Back at the strange situation in his hands, a cloth full of something.</p><p>“What are you… what on earth are you making?”</p><p>Martin frowns at him, then laughs. “Oh. It’s, it’s called clootie? It’s a traditional Scottish pudding, proper ye olde stuff… it’s a sponge with raisins and fruit and treacle, bit of cinnamon – although, I doubt the original recipe would’ve had spices – anyway, you cook it in a cloth like this and steam it for a few hours. I’ve always wanted to make it, and well. Didn’t seem like there could be a better time. When in Rome?”</p><p>Jon watches in bafflement as Martin places the tied-up cloth in the bath of simmering water. “Right.”</p><p>“Look, I promise it’ll taste good. It’s real comfort food, all – warm flavours and custard.”</p><p>And he can’t really argue with that. Certainly not with Martin’s baking skills, which have proven themselves to be entirely competent. And judging by the smell of spices in the air, he can’t deny that he doesn’t mind trying a bit. It’s not as if he doesn’t have room for it after their dinner of cheese sandwiches and crisps. But aside from all that, it’s the look of joy that’s returned to Martin’s eyes – that brightness again. Jon would do anything to let Martin indulge in that brightness; it’s such a relief to see, after feeling him drift away all week. </p><p>He curls up in one corner of the sofa, watching the fire. The exhaustion hits him as he feels his face warm up in front of the hearth. </p><p>His laptop sits in the corner, waiting. </p><p>No writing, not yet. He’s not ready. Instead, he rests his eyes for a while, head on the arm of the sofa. He doesn’t open them when he feels Martin sit on the other end, opening a book. The quiet turning of pages. </p><p>“Jon.”</p><p>Had he fallen asleep? That’s pretty rare for him, to fall asleep on the sofa. It must be the painkillers. </p><p>A bowl of steaming pudding and custard. It’s hot when he takes it, hands cupping it like a jewel. </p><p>“Careful, it’ll be hot.”</p><p>“Martin, this looks amazing.”</p><p>“Well, proof of the pudding’s in the eating, and all that.”</p><p>The bowl has a little chip on the lip, the spoon slightly rusted with the engraving of a daisy on it. Jon blows; tastes; and it’s—</p><p>“God,” he says out loud before he can help it, mouth full. “That’s amazing.”</p><p>A quiet chuckle. “Well, I’m glad. It’s my first time making it, so it could have easily gone completely wrong.”</p><p>“Mph,” is Jon’s reply, spoon already in mouth. </p><p>They watch the fire and empty their bowls, spoons scraping. Cinnamon warm on his tongue.</p><p>“Where were you born, Martin?”</p><p>He looks at Jon, brows raised. Then head tilted as he thinks. “Bolton. Just outside Manchester. But, erm, we moved south when I was still at school, so I’ve only got a bit of an accent, now.”</p><p>“I had noticed,” Jon remarks, affection far too clear in his voice. “You called dinner ‘tea’.”</p><p>“That’s because it is tea,” Martin asserts with a smile.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“I still can’t say ‘b<i>ah</i>th’. Always bath. And grass. Never ‘gr<i>ah</i>ss’.”</p><p>Jon snorts. Toes wiggling in his socks, arms wrapped around himself. </p><p>“Are you cold?”</p><p>“A bit,” he admits. “Daisy and Basira didn’t seem to think I needed any jumpers.”</p><p>The curtains are closed, but a sliver remains open, showing a starry sky. Jon looks, considers getting up and sitting closer to the fire. </p><p>“Hang on.”</p><p>Martin stands up, his soft footfalls moving to the bedroom. It’s with a certain amount of anticipation that Jon turns and watches him through the crack in the door, because he thinks he knows exactly why Martin is in there. </p><p>Sure enough, he emerges with a cable-knit in his hands, holding it up a bit sheepishly. </p><p>“I didn’t really have time to pack, Basira was, er…” Martin tilts his head, and Jon remembers exactly how Basira was. “Anyway, I shoved this one in last second, it’s got a hole in the elbow, but…”</p><p>Martin passes it apologetically, and Jon takes it with utter reverence. Uncrumples it and pulls it over his head – he hasn’t even pulled it all the way over when he feels suddenly overwhelmed by Martin’s smell, by the gesture and the feeling of: <i>is this what it feels like to be loved?</i> </p><p>The sleeves come down too far, covering his knuckles. It swallows him up, but it’s warm and it’s Martin’s and that’s more than enough. “Thank you, Martin,” he says, with surprising calm. </p><p>“You’re welcome,” Martin breathes. Then, “Um. Anyway, where did you grow up?”</p><p>Jon gives him a sidelong glance. “You must know that from stalking my Wikipedia page.”</p><p>Eyes widening in panic. “No! I mean, I—I did look up your Wikipedia, yes, but I didn’t actually read that much. It felt weird, and I felt bad. I already apologised for that,” he adds with some annoyance.</p><p>It makes him laugh. Muscles in his face being used that he hasn’t felt in a long time. “You’re right, you did… I was born and raised in Bournemouth.”</p><p>“Oh. Seaside. That must’ve been quite nice.”</p><p>“You would think,” Jon agrees, playing with the fraying end of Martin’s jumper. “You’d expect it to be a pretty seaside town, but I’m afraid it isn’t. Whatever charm it might have had in the Victorian times has largely gone, now. It’s mostly populated by university students and sunburned tourists. And a lot of traffic.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s… kind of a shame.”</p><p>Jon raises his brows in a lazy shrug. “There were some neighbouring towns that were nice. I went to a boys’ grammar school in north Bournemouth, and… well. Actually, it wasn’t very nice around there, either. Poole isn’t much better.”</p><p>“Bolton wasn’t exactly cosmopolitan either,” Martin admits. </p><p>“No, I imagine not.”</p><p>“So, you… did you leave to go to Oxford, then?”</p><p>Another sidelong glance. “You did read my Wikipedia page.”</p><p>“Only a tiny bit – besides, that’s in all your books, in the About the Author bit.”</p><p>“Martin,” he laughs, all affection. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing, nothing.”</p><p>And they talk for a while. A little while longer, until neither of them can keep their eyes open and the fire burns to embers.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>somft...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rain comes down hard the next morning. Jon wakes up to it in a strange room. The unfamiliarity of it, the panic – it makes him sit upright too quickly. He knocks his head on the beam directly above his bed.</p><p>“Gah – fuck –” </p><p>At least it’s not on the same side of his head as his stitches. That would have been pretty appalling. Nonetheless, it hurts, and Jon moans sadly to himself in yesterday’s shirt and boxers; pyjamaless and hurting all over. </p><p>“Jon? You alright up there?”</p><p>“Oh – er, yes Martin, I’m fine,” he calls. “Low ceilings.”</p><p>A pause, in which Jon is sure Martin is laughing. “Oof,” comes the subsequent response. </p><p>“Just a bit,” Jon mutters to himself, rubbing his head. </p><p>Washing his face with freezing cold water; no razor, so his stubble is coming through in patchy greys and blacks. Looking back in the rusting mirror, Jon traces a finger along the white stripes of tape on his forehead. It’s feeling a lot less sensitive today. And the bruising under his shirt is going a sick yellow, instead of purple – </p><p>The taste of copper in his mouth. The exact moment his rib broke and a boot in his stomach, the concrete wet and he can’t see his face, just his shoes and –</p><p>The sink is tight under his grip. And he sees his reflection again through the haze of remembering. Dark, furious eyes looking back at him, willing himself to stay here; stay in this place where it’s quiet and there’s no running hot water, where there’s the sound of gulls overhead and Martin downstairs. And he suddenly wishes he could call Georgie, but he can’t; Daisy had taken both of their phones and replaced them with Nokia bricks. New sim-cards and all. He hopes, at least, that she realises that he’s not just ignoring her if she’s tried to get in touch. </p><p>There’s a smell. And it’s warm, Jon realises; the AGA must be on, and Martin must be baking. It makes his eyes fall shut slowly, a smile that he doesn’t realise is there until he opens them again and catches it in the mirror. The smile doesn’t falter, he won’t let it. He holds it there and tries to get used to the feeling. </p><p>The stairs creak when he descends. Martin turns and looks up from the kitchenette.</p><p>“Should I be getting used to this?” Jon asks. He hadn’t realised he was still smiling until hearing it just now in his voice. </p><p>Martin is in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and yesterday’s jumper. His hair a little awry, and it gives Jon that bread-rising feeling in his chest. </p><p>“Well, I am a baker,” Martin explains a little self-consciously. “I don’t really know what else to do with myself.”</p><p>Jon takes a deep breath; yeast and warmth. Baking bread. But not just that – the smell of rain, of outside. “This is a nice thing to wake up to.”</p><p>A growing smile, eyes turned away. “I’m glad.”</p><p>Martin turns to the window and looks out, opening the curtain a little and standing in the morning light. It frames his silhouette and catches the soft curls of his hair, the slope of his shoulders, and Jon is momentarily transfixed. </p><p>“It looks like the rain’s passed for now,” he remarks. “I almost got caught in it this morning.”</p><p>Jon fills the kettle. “You were out this morning?”</p><p>“Yeah. I didn’t wake you?”</p><p>“Not at all.”</p><p>“That’s a relief, I was worried I was crashing around.”</p><p>Looking at his watch as he puts the kettle on the hob. “Martin, it’s only seven thirty. How long have you been up?”</p><p>Martin leans against the windowsill. “I’m used to getting up before dawn. You kind of have to in my trade.”</p><p>“Of course,” he realises, feeling a bit stupid for not having done sooner. “I suppose early rises are a difficult habit to kick.”</p><p>“A bit.”</p><p>Jon leans against the counter, so they both smile at each other from across the room. And it hits him – that smell of outside is coming from Martin, from his walk. The clear smell of rain and petrichor mixed in with him, and it makes him breathless. Something so much like home. A rush of home and comfort and fresh feelings that Jon can only associate with Martin. </p><p>“So,” he says with an exhale. “You walked around in the dark, by yourself.”</p><p>Martin looks away, rubs the back of his neck. “Well, when you put it like that…”</p><p>“And you call me brooding.”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>The kettle begins to whistle, and Jon takes it off the hob. Two chintzy teacups, saucers missing – a teabag in each. He pours, steam fogging his glasses. “Did you see anything exciting?”</p><p>Martin snorts, and Jon thinks it may be the first time Martin has recognised one of his ill attempts at a joke. “Yeah, saw some… good cows. Very good cows.”</p><p>“Remarkable,” Jon agrees.</p><p>Carefully, he takes over one of the cups to Martin, who watches its arrival with parted lips. </p><p>“What?” Jon asks.</p><p>“You made me tea?”</p><p>“Well. Yes. If… you don’t want it, obviously that’s fine, I just thought –” </p><p>“No, no, thank you,” Martin rushes, taking it carefully so as not to slosh it out of the teacup. “Thank you.”</p><p>“You seem surprised,” Jon frowns, sitting on the sofa’s arm. </p><p>A moment, where Martin seems to gather his words; a halo of light behind him. Heart-breaking. Then, a self-deprecating laugh and an eyeroll. “I mean, I suppose I’m so used to bringing <i>you</i> tea. I don’t think you’ve ever made me one before.”</p><p>And Jon realises then that he’s right. Martin makes a living out of giving tea to customers, but for Jon, bringing tea is a kind of love language – something he has just made terribly obvious, and it makes him stumble, stare and freeze. But then…</p><p>Well. What’s the harm in making a cup of tea?</p><p>“I suppose I haven’t,” he manages. More light-heartedly, “I’m very sorry for that. I’ll make sure not to make the same mistake again.”</p><p>Martin looks into his mug. Something crossing his expression that seems very far away.</p><p>“Are you alright?” he asks. </p><p>Martin huffs. “That isn’t an easy question to answer.”</p><p>Jon aches, and Martin flusters. </p><p>“I mean, right now, here, I’m – I’m happy. Very. This is good. But… recently, it’s not been the best. This week especially. You probably noticed I haven’t been around much since the night out.”</p><p>The steam billows in front of his face, and he holds onto the cup’s warmth. “I had felt that you were a little distant recently.”</p><p>He sighs, a frustrated noise. “I’m sorry I’ve not been… Since… Things have been hard with mum recently, and—”</p><p>“Martin, please—there’s nothing to apologise for. I’m just sorry that it’s been hard.”</p><p>Martin isn’t looking at him, profile full of thoughtful lines. “Yeah. I suppose it’s just… nice to know that someone’s noticed.” he says. Then, that light returning. “Tea helps. Tea always helps.”</p><p>And God, Jon doesn’t want him to drift away. If it means making him cups of tea for the rest of life – he would simply be honoured to be the one to put on the kettle. </p><p>***</p><p>Sitting by the window, with his laptop open. Words on a page that he is meant to edit, words that make a story that he doesn’t care about, a story that he’s scared of. A story he has been writing for a man who he despises. Jon stares at the screen, sat upright in the old wooden chair and trapped.</p><p>His fingers flex above the keyboard. Then, they pull away again, falling into his lap.  </p><p>Outside, through the window above the table he occupies, Martin sits on a grassy knoll. The loch is glittering behind him, the ragged lines of dark cliffs and mountains. There’s a forever stretching through the window, and Martin sits in it like he’s been in Jon’s life from the beginning. The end of a biro poised at his lips and a little pad of paper balanced on his knee, the corners of the pages flipping about in the wind – he turns to look at the view, at the minute changes in the landscape.</p><p>Jon looks away from his laptop and he watches. </p><p>His cheeks go pink in the cold. Jon remembers that from their venture out in the rain a few weeks ago. The curve of his back as he leans over the notepad, writing something down in a sudden burst of inspiration. He bites his tongue when he concentrates; he bites his lip when he’s writing; he tilts his head when he thinks. </p><p>The laptop goes dark with inactivity. And then, Jon wakes it – opens a new document. His fingers type. It is thoughtless, an action that runs from some deep well in him and straight to his computer. </p><p>
  <i>Hair that flows into the lines of the landscape. Are your freckles the stony shore that we trod so carefully yesterday?</i>
</p><p>Jon doesn’t even look at the laptop, eyes on Martin as he types what he sees. </p><p>
  <i>Did you bring the outside inside today? He carries the smell of wet grass and morning. If the sun didn’t rise, I would wake up for him.</i>
</p><p>His fingers abruptly stop when Martin catches his gaze. Through the old window, they stare at each other for a long moment.</p><p>Jon smiles. </p><p>Martin smiles back, head ducked. He goes back to the notepad, perched on his little knoll. </p><p>And when he looks back at Jon again, he laughs to find him still staring. Jon can’t hear it, but he can still imagine it, and he can’t look away. </p><p>“<i>What?</i>” Martin mouths at him through the glass. </p><p>“Nothing,” Jon replies aloud, shaking his head. Still smiling.</p><p>Martin has gone red. Returns to his pen and paper. </p><p>And at that, Jon looks back down at his computer. Fingers flying –</p><p>
  <i>He writes poetry, as if he isn’t poetry himself.</i>
</p><p>Rereading it, he shakes his head. There is no way he’s coming back from this – this level of in-love that he’s never felt before. He scratches his newly growing beard, he sighs, and he can’t stop the smile as he reads his Martin-inspired musings. Whether it’s any good or not isn’t the point. </p><p>Daring to peer through the window, and Martin is looking at him.</p><p>Looks away immediately with an embarrassed smile. </p><p>“Oh,” Jon says to the empty room. Looking at Martin, looking and looking, a world of view behind him but he is so much better than any loch or cliff. </p><p><i>Does he love me?</i>, his shaking fingers type. </p><p>***</p><p>“Did you get any writing done?”</p><p>The door opens to bring in that smell of rain again, of clean wind and Martin. He closes the door carefully behind him. </p><p>Jon stretches his back, making a satisfying cracking noise with his arms in the air. “Not really.”</p><p>“That’s OK. Don’t rush yourself.”</p><p>“Yes,” Jon agrees, watching Martin wander into the kitchen and turn hob on to heat the kettle. “I suppose you’re right.”</p><p>“I managed to write something, just a little thing, but it isn’t… well, I never know if my poetry’s actually any good.”</p><p>Jon stands and stretches again, before folding onto the sofa. “Well. If you ever felt like showing it to me…”</p><p>A sidelong glance. “Michael said you don’t like poetry.”</p><p>“I’ve never said that I don’t like poetry,” Jon frowns. Michael – fucking typical. “I don’t particularly like <i>his</i>. Or Helen’s. It’s incredibly, er, bleak.”</p><p>“I’d say it’s more ‘fucked up’ than bleak.”</p><p>A surprised huff of a laugh. “Yes, you’re right. It’s definitely that.”</p><p>“Either way, I’m not sure if I’m… I dunno, I’m not very confident about my writing.”</p><p>“No, I understand. I – well, I <i>more</i> than understand.”</p><p>Martin smiles at him over his shoulder. There is something strangely tense in the action, and when he comes to sit on the sofa beside Jon, he sits like he’s in a waiting room; hands on his knees; back straight; looking ahead. </p><p>“Why did you invite me here, Jon?”</p><p>The question rings out in the silence that ensues. The gentle whisper of the kettle simmering, and Martin, now looking at him. For a man so gentle, he can be so fierce, for eyes so softly brown, they can be so searching. A pinch in his brow that Jon tries to translate. This anxiety that floats between them that Jon hasn’t identified yet, too distracted by his own feelings – heart, swelling like a Rachmaninov solo. </p><p>Martin is waiting, and Jon opens his mouth, head shaking helplessly. </p><p>“I…” </p><p><i>Does he love me? Or is he just kind to me? If I tell him I love him, how much will I lose?</i> </p><p>Dark eyes, watching. The feeling of Martin drifting away with every moment he hesitates. </p><p>“I was afraid,” Jon manages, voice quiet. Fists balling up the material of the jumper he has borrowed from Martin. “I was afraid that you would be in danger if I left you behind. And…”</p><p>And. So many ands. How many ands can he give to make it clear how he feels? How many would it take to ruin this, to push Martin away? He can see the light in his eyes fade, and Jon shuffles closer to him, knees touching. </p><p>He stares at the space over Martin’s shoulder, then closes his eyes. “And…”</p><p>The kettle starts to whistle. Jon is on his feet before he can help it, and he’s scolding himself for it before he’s even reached the kitchenette – racing around the sofa and running a hand through his hair desperately. </p><p>“Tea,” he says to himself. “Tea – have you got your cup? Ah, there it is.”</p><p>He pours, hand shaking. Why is he so afraid? For fuck’s sake, he <i>knows</i> why he’s afraid, he’s just so angry that he’s such a coward. Why is it easier to argue and bristle and push away than it is to love openly? Why has Martin stayed here through all of his stumbling and staring and stormy moods—?</p><p>The door opening. Jon turns with a mug in each hand to see Martin leaving, looking back at Jon with a shine in his eyes – a different shine to that joyful glimpse. This is the shine of tears. </p><p>“Martin,” Jon breathes.</p><p>“I just… need some fresh air.”</p><p>“Martin—”</p><p>He takes a lurching step forward, but the door is already closed. A gush of evening air picks up the dust on the mantelpiece and sets it dancing in the late sunlight. And Jon stands in the living room with Martin’s tea, staring at the closed door and yet still seeing the pain in his eyes like a faded daguerreotype photograph. </p><p>“Martin.”</p><p>The mugs knock against the counter as he puts them down. He lays his face in his hands. </p><p>***</p><p>Sunset is late this far North. The sky is still light and grey, the haze of white-blue stretching into the distant mountains. And the loch is still, still enough that it reflects the emptiness of the sky and dark rocks that cup it. </p><p>Martin stands knee deep in the ice-cold water, skimming stones. </p><p>It hurts. For a while, bad things have made him empty, but this actively hurts. This is why he— he <i>knew</i> staying with Jon would be a bad idea: a tearing hurt in his chest that feels like a precise set of claws. </p><p>He cares, at least. This was never a doubt – Jon cares about Martin’s wellbeing. And it’s very possible that he enjoys his company, but that is it. That is why Martin was invited here. It’s a terribly lonely thing to come to realise. </p><p>The ripples stretch across the glass water, the specks of gulls’ reflections distorted. The freezing cold of the loch goes straight to his bones. It hurts, it hurts, and it hurts. Martin bends to search for another pebble, his feet too numb to feel them; he finds a perfectly flat shard and flicks it over the water. It bounces four times, before sinking. Then, nothing, the water, still, and Martin, standing in it, alone. </p><p>This shouldn’t hurt so much, he thinks – but even as he thinks it, he has to purse his lips against a quiet sob. It shouldn’t hurt, because it’s undeniable that Jon cares for him more than almost anyone ever has. He cares in a real way. It’s just that it’s not the kind of love that Martin feels for him. Martin loves him in a marrying kind of way, in a hands held walking down the street way. And it’s OK if Jon doesn’t feel the same because Jon still takes him to parties and tells him he looks nice, and makes him tea. That’s enough, and it shouldn’t hurt. </p><p>That emptiness, creeping in – sterilizing the pain. Martin bends for another stone. </p><p>“Martin!”</p><p>The rock is cold in his hand. And he sees Jon, half jogging and half falling down the grassy hill in front of the cottage, arms out wide for balance and barely keeping from falling onto his arse. Now, sitting on the wooden fence and swinging his legs over clumsily, Martin’s jumper rolled up to the sleeves. And then he’s hurrying – really, like he’s trying to catch a bus – sliding down the steep incline instead of taking the longer path to the beach.</p><p>“Martin—"</p><p>“Jon,” he sighs, “What are you doing?”</p><p>“Just—”</p><p>Arms out wide again, stepping awkwardly over the rocks of the loch’s shore. Wobbling along the shingle beach, occasionally looking up as if trying to see if Martin has fled or not, his expression one of pure determination and concentration as he navigates his way towards the water. And there’s a moment where he almost loses his balance on the uneven ground, waving his arms and propping himself up on a nearby rock.</p><p>“Bloody hell—”</p><p>“Be careful!” Martin calls. He looks down as he tries to make his way back out of the water to meet him. “Jon, what’re you—”</p><p>“No, no, stay there,” he points at him, “I’m coming over to you.”</p><p>“Jon…”</p><p>And then Martin finds himself laughing, at last. Finally laughing at the absurd image of Jonathan Sims stumbling along the beach with as much grace as a baby deer, grimacing and swearing until he’s at the very edge of the water, where he stops. </p><p>He looks at the lapping edge of the loch, then at Martin, a few metres away with his trousers rolled to his knees and a pebble in his hand. </p><p>“You asked me why I invited you here,” he announces, a bit out of breath. Frowning at Martin – desperate, he realises.</p><p>Martin chucks the pebble into the water. “You were worried about me.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, but – Martin it’s more than that. I need you. No, it’s not even that, you –” Jon huffs, head hanging. “You inspire me, Martin. Every day. You’re the most amazing man I know.”</p><p>He looks so serious. A backdrop of a rugged cliffs and Jon, hovering at the edge of the shore, hands loose at his sides. Except, Jon’s words don’t quite reach him. Martin smiles. </p><p>“That’s nice,” he replies sadly. And when Jon shakes his head in confusion – “Thing is, Jon, I’m in love with you. I really <i>love</i> you.”</p><p>And the way his face falls when Martin says that – all the seriousness melting into something different. The tension in his shoulders disappears and Jon stares. Martin looks back, wondering how long he’ll be able to without breaking, cold water lapping up against his shins. </p><p>Jon shakes his head minutely. “Martin,” he huffs, the smallest of laughs. “I loved you the moment I saw you.”</p><p>His face. Has Martin ever seen him look at him like this? Yes – he has. Looking through the window as he wrote his poetry. Looking at him in a room of publishers and editors, eyes only on him as he talked about himself. Seeing Martin set down a cup of tea and a pastry at his table, then looking away. </p><p>Martin is trying to feel it. He’s trying to let it in and push the pain out of the way. </p><p>Jon nods decisively. “Hang on—”</p><p>Now he is doing a poor balancing act as he tries to take his shoe off. He stands on one leg, pulling off one Oxford, throwing it behind him, then pulling off another. </p><p>“Jon,” Martin shakes his head – and – he’s smiling. He feels the smile rising on his face. </p><p>How can he not, when Jon is stepping into the water with a grimace, arms out-stretched. </p><p>“<i>Shit</i> it’s fucking freezing—”</p><p>“What are you doing? Stop, I’ll just get out—”</p><p>“Stay put, for the love of God, don’t move,” he argues.</p><p>Jon hisses. His trousers are getting soaked up to the knee, and Martin has no idea why he’s wading through freezing cold water to get to him. And then he’s flapping his arms like a cartoon character, eyes widening. Martin dives forward to catch him before he falls, grabs him by the arms until they’re hanging off each other, leaning forward at forty-five-degree angles. He leads Jon towards him, both looking down at the clear water and the distorted view of their feet. Toe to toe.</p><p>And then they look at each other.</p><p>His hands on Martin’s arms, moving upwards, fingers fumbling at the collar of his jumper. Standing in a lake with the sky going dark and looking at him. </p><p>It’s so quiet here. So quiet apart from the distant sound of birds overhead. So quiet as they move closer, gazes shifting from eyes to lips, water caressing their shins; noses grazing; lingering there a little longer, just to be able to feel each other’s breaths. Just to be able to see each other watching.</p><p>Jon shuts his eyes and breathes. </p><p>Martin smiles, and he kisses him. </p><p>He kisses him like he’s tucking a stray hair behind his ear, something careful and thoughtful and slow. Jon receives it like he doesn’t want to move and break the dream. </p><p>And so Martin kisses him again. It’s with a sigh against his lips that Jon kisses back, his body loose and his fingers hooked onto the neck of Martin’s jumper; a hand curled gently against his chest. </p><p>Martin smiles against his lips, and Jon tips his head to kiss it. </p><p>“You love me,” Martin laughs, disbelieving. </p><p>His eyes are closed, their foreheads pressed together. He feels Jon’s hands on his cheeks, an anchor in the middle of a loch. </p><p>“How could I not?” he whispers.</p><p>Martin smiles and smiles and smiles and he looks at Jon, sees something like adoration – for <i>him</i>. </p><p>“It’s really cold in here,” Martin suddenly realises.</p><p>In the gentlest voice possible, “It’s absolutely fucking freezing.”</p><p>And that makes him laugh. It makes him laugh until their noses knock together and he can’t see the way Jon’s eyes flutter closed. “Let’s go home.”</p><p>They do, with hands gripping each other’s arms and flustered laughs. This time, they take the path home instead of climbing up the hill, fingers tangled and tracing knuckles. </p><p>***</p><p>And so, a week passes in peace. </p><p>In the mornings, they watch the gulls settle down on the empty shore, the loch a foreverness of water between dark rock and black trees. The sky is grey and asphalt blue; an atmosphere of absolutely no pollution, just sun and light and clouds. It gives Martin a sunburn across his nose and his arms. </p><p>Martin will sit alone for only a few minutes – on the knoll, or perhaps the wooden fence in front of their house. The sound of the door opening will tell him that Jon has returned with tea. Martin will turn and see Jon standing beside him, looking down with that almost-smile that he has. </p><p>Steam will rise like laughter before their faces. They will sit side by side, watching the landscape move in the smallest ways; their arms touch as seamlessly as the sky meets the horizon.  </p><p>***</p><p>Another week drifts. </p><p>In the afternoons, they will listen to the waves whisper to the rocks. They will walk across the uneven shore of the loch, hand in hand and trying not to fall. Sometimes, they will trace the edge of the cliffs, grass damp and untrodden, and they will point to the distance where their cottage sits like a child’s sticker, haphazardly pressed into the hills. Jon will spot it, remarking on how small it looks, and Martin will agree, a hand around his waist and the softest of kisses on the top of his head. </p><p>Sometimes, the cows will be grazing in the field next to theirs when they return from their walks. There are days when they return with food shopping from the village two miles away; most days, they return with nothing but soft, respectful voices as the cows watch them pass. </p><p>They will sit in front of the cottage and write. Jon will frown and sigh and type so fast the whole world seems to echo with the sound of his keyboard. He will feel like he is being unspooled – and Martin will be there, a hand on his knee to keep him tethered. </p><p>***</p><p>Days turn into a waterwheel of bliss. </p><p>In the evenings, they will try to strike a fire – with varying success, since it’s hard with just matches. Martin will write musings and couplets and rhymes in his notepad, and Jon will read the old books left behind on the dusty shelves from previous tenants. Their legs will tangle on the sofa, their heads will be on laps, fingers laced. </p><p>On colder nights, they will sit on cushions right in front of the hearth, Martin’s back against the sofa and Jon sitting between his legs. His chin fits perfectly on top of his head, and Jon strokes the backs of his hands like they are his home and he is memorising their address. </p><p>***</p><p>It’s warm today, the taste of ozone fresh from the mountains. Martin doesn’t know exactly what day it is, not in any terms of names or numbers or months; that stopped mattering here a while ago, and all that matters now is that there’s just a light enough breeze to dry these bedsheets off by evening. Judging by the way the clouds seem to evaporate as soon as they cross the mountains, it looks as if they won’t be getting any rain. </p><p>The tub of water is lukewarm. It had been hot ten minutes ago, but out in the open air it has cooled quickly. The pillowcase billows with pockets of air as he gives it another swirl through the basin, then pulls it out and wrings it dry – strings of water showering onto the grass. It makes a gentle patter, like rain on a windowsill. </p><p>A washing line, fashioned out of cable that they found under the sink, strung out between the fence and the drainpipe of the cottage. Jon stands at the centre, clipping pegs onto the white sheet. It shivers in the breeze, and the black curls of Jon’s hair dance over his shoulders to meet the ones that pour down his back. Standing in front of the glittering lock and the melting snow-caps of the mountains, he looks like he has lived here for years. The slanting profile of his nose, the furrowed brow of concentration and a peg between his teeth, fastening the pillowcase to the line. </p><p>Martin waits for him, holding out the second pillowcase. Jon takes it wordlessly and airs out the creases with a <i>smack</i>. Flicks of water up his bare arms; wearing a shirt that used to be ironed and pristine, now wrinkled and undone at the top three buttons. Removing the peg from between his teeth, attaching it to the line. </p><p>Jon looks so peaceful, like this. Simply living – not waiting for the next story to sweep him away and catch him adrift. </p><p>“What do you want for dinner tonight?” </p><p>Jon asks this, eyes on the washing line. As if he has absolutely no idea that Martin is adoring him from below, kneeling on the grass with his hands elbow deep in a washing basin. </p><p>***</p><p>It is the simple feeling of sitting beside each other on the grass outside their little cottage – it’s theirs now, whether or not they ever return to London – watching the flecks of light on the loch. The taste of some cobbled-together pasta dish they had laughed through together, under-seasoned and overcooked, with their bare feet knocking together. Tomorrow, the grass they’re sitting on will be dewy. </p><p>Jon will look at Martin and he won’t remember what it was like without him. How can he live outside of this moment? The way Martin’s eyes light up and crinkle when he laughs, dimples in his cheeks, head tilted to the side. He doesn’t remember what he said to cause that laugh. </p><p>It’s simple feelings like these; his cheek, pressed against Martin’s shoulder and the gentle tracing of a finger along his forearm that makes him shiver. </p><p>***</p><p>In the middle of this remoteness, the nights are pitch-black.</p><p>Jon screams in his sleep sometimes. When Martin wakes up, he finds him curled under the sheets like he’s protecting himself from some ghostly kick, and Martin will turn on the light and talk him through it. Whether or not Jon wakes up to hear it is not the point; something in the sound of Martin’s voice seems to bring him down to a whimper and whispered sobs, hands balled up in his t-shirt until Martin can feel his nails against the skin of his chest. </p><p>***</p><p>It’s kisses on the floor by the fire, exploratory lips finding the curves of each other’s faces, hands cupping cheeks. The way it makes Jon feel so wonderfully, painfully seen. His skin feels warm and it’s all to do with Martin.</p><p>Who cares what day of the week it is.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <b>important announcement regarding the next chapter!</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Soooo this chapter was originally much longer, but I chose to split it into two because I decided to add a (very ace friendly) sex scene. And since I may have readers who aren't into that, I thought it would be easier to separate the sex scene so people could skip it :)</p><p>Therefore, <b>if you are uncomfortable reading sex scenes, you can skip chapter 7!</b> (I have copied and pasted into the comments section the bits of chapter 7 that are absolutely non-sex related, in case you'd like to go to the chapter comment section and read those!)</p><p>Like I said, though, it's very ace friendly :)</p><p>After these two chapters, there will be another 8th. Just to round it all up :)</p><p>I hope you've all enjoyed this fic so far ❤️❤️❤️</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Did I hear you ask for a cheeky smut chapter?</p><p>Three important announcements:</p><p>1) OK -- now. Not that I should have to do this, but I'm going to state again that <b>I am ace</b> so please, for the love of god, please don't try and tell me that my fic is acephobic for exploring the various, complex nuances of asxuality and sex positivity.</p><p>2) I have updated the rating of this fic, because of this added sex scene. Please read the tags and look at the rating, at your own discretion. </p><p>3) <b>If you are not comfortable reading sex scenes, I got your backs bro! I've copied and pasted into the top of the comment section the first bit of this chapter -- a conversation between Jon and Martin that has absolutely nothing to do with sex. You may want to read it, I hope you find it cute and fluffy! You'll find it in a reply to the first comment in this chapter.</b></p><p>On a chirpier note, I'm so happy to see people enjoy this fic!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and I hope you enjoy the rest of it, once I've finished the last chapter!</p>
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    <p>The rain plays a soft percussion against the windows and they watch the fire dance. Maybe it’s boredom – there isn’t much to do, with no WIFI and limited literature on the bookshelves. There are walks through the fields and conversations, scrabble and a 1970s edition of Trivial Pursuit, but there’s little else. Perhaps they’re bored, but Martin doesn’t find it frustrating in the way boredom should be; something about simply being able to exist, Jon leaning against his side, is enough. </p><p>“I love you,” Jon remarks, like it’s just crossed his mind. </p><p>“I love you too.”</p><p>The fire waves at them, speaking in semaphore. </p><p>“Have you ever been to Scotland before?”</p><p>Jon stretches his back against Martin’s side. Mindless shifts and undulations that he’s become used to, that makes Martin smile and crave. </p><p>“I went to Edinburgh for a book festival a couple of years ago,” Jon replies. “It’s an interesting city.”</p><p>“I always wanted to go.”</p><p>Jon’s hand moves to Martin’s thigh, taps it absently. Head resting on his shoulder. “Perhaps, when…”</p><p><i>When this is over</i>, whenever that will be. They’ve heard nothing from either Daisy or Basira. Martin supposes that’s a good thing. </p><p>“I finished my fifth draft today.”</p><p>He looks down at the top of Jon’s head. “That’s awesome!”</p><p>“Yes, well. We’ll see if it’s any good, first.”</p><p>He tuts. “I’m sure it is. It’s not like you’ll have ruined the last draft or something.”</p><p>“You’ve jinxed it, now.”</p><p>“<i>For</i> – you’re so infuriating.”</p><p>“I’m fully aware.” A smile in his voice. “At least I can forget about it for a while.”</p><p>“You deserve it,” Martin agrees, lips against the top of his head. </p><p>Jon sighs silently. “Do you miss London?” </p><p>He sighs, too. “A bit. I don’t miss it because it’s London, though – I miss… well, I do miss Georgie and Melanie, a bit.” Which has surprised him. “It’s more that I miss them than I miss London. I miss civilisation. And being able to get a Chinese takeaway.”</p><p>A huff. “That can be the first on our list.”</p><p>When he traces a finger along Jon’s arm, it’s thoughtless; it’s something he does a lot, these days. The way Jon shifts under the touch like a sleeping cat is also something he has come to expect, and it’s lovely. Jon’s fingers tap against his thigh one by one like a piano scale. </p><p>“Martin?”</p><p>There’s something childishly nervous in Jon’s voice. “Yes?”</p><p>“When we get home… whenever that is – how would you feel about moving in with me?”</p><p>Martin blinks at the dancing fire. Jon’s thumb, stroking his thigh, and a feeling like someone’s rubbed Deep Heat all over his heart. </p><p>“Naturally – I mean, I have no idea what it’ll be like, where I’ll be living – Daisy was pretty obscure on the details, you know as well as I do – anyway… I don’t know where they’re moving me or, whether it would be – suitable. But, I wanted to – ah –”</p><p>“Jon,” Martin laughs.</p><p>At that, Jon sits up a little so their faces are close, so he can see Martin better – the slightest look of accusation. “You’re laughing?”</p><p>“We’ve been living together for, what – almost a month, now?”</p><p>“Well, yes, but it’s different.”</p><p>“I mean…” </p><p>He can’t help but laugh again, and Jon responds with satisfying irritation. It’s a façade, Martin realises by now – a game they like to play. “Do you or do you not want to move in with me when we go back to London?”</p><p>“Of course,” Martin laughs. “I love that you asked me properly. No, I mean it! It means a lot… it’s just… you’re absolutely adorable.”</p><p>Jon tries to look irritated, but he looks too… soft. The not-quite-smile. “I’m adorable in no shape or form,” he says, tilting his head up so their noses brush. </p><p>“Mm,” Martin replies, eyes falling closed. “You’re not convincing me…”</p><p>He feels the huff of irritation and amusement against his lips before Jon kisses him, body twisted against Martin’s side to reach him. A hand, still on Martin’s thigh. </p><p>Jon kisses two ways. Sometimes, he kisses with consideration and precision, like he’s placing a pin on a map. Other times, like he’s falling out of his body, drifting – lips moving with instinct and thoughtlessness like he wants nothing more than to never think again. Now, he kisses consciously as if he wants Martin to know that he’s kissing him, that he means it. </p><p>Martin threads his fingers through his hair. Runs a hand along the inside of his arm until Jon makes that stretching shiver that’s so lovely. </p><p>And then Jon’s kisses turn into something else. </p><p>It’s new. It’s deliberate and <i>deep</i>, and it makes Martin hum in surprise, leaning back against the sofa and holding onto his arm a little tighter. </p><p>Sighs and breaths, ticklishly soft. That’s what they share when they kiss, the sound of lips parting and shared air. Now, when Jon kisses him against the cushions, he hums into Martin’s mouth like he’s sliding into a hot bath. </p><p>Martin keeps his hand running up Jon’s arm. He lets it go featherlight and Jon’s breath hitches, kiss breaking. </p><p>“Jon…?”</p><p>He had meant to ask a full question there – a real sentence with words. Instead, he’s feeling the hand on his thigh slide slowly upwards to his hip, up his stomach and his chest over the material of his t-shirt. His eyes closed, feeling Jon’s lips hover tantalisingly above his. </p><p>Martin strokes a thumb over Jon’s waist. Jon kisses him. Deeply, slowly.</p><p>His stubble is thick, barely trimmed with a pair of scissors they’d found under the sink; it matches his own, scrapes his lips and makes them sore in a way that tastes good. Martin runs a thumb across that stubbled jaw. Breathes deeply and tastes Jon newly. </p><p>And the kiss doesn’t break, even when Jon shifts to press closer to him – even when Martin feels him move until he’s kissing <i>above</i> him – even when he feels a weight in his lap – Jon, sitting in his lap and pulling himself close – his hands on Martin’s face and in his hair and—</p><p>“Jon…”</p><p>Martin feels his response vibrate against his lips.</p><p>He brings his shaking hands to Jon’s waist, lays them there carefully he’s simply holding him rather than touching him. And yet Jon is less hesitant, sliding closer into Martin’s laps so his back is arched, and if he presses any closer, then – well –</p><p>Martin tilts his head up to receive the kisses that Jon is giving him, and if Jon is happy to give him these kisses– these… decisive, tasting kisses – he will gladly take them – but –</p><p>“Jon,” he says against slick lips. “Jon, hang on—”</p><p>The weight in his lap shifts as Jon leans back, looks at him, his hands cupping Martin’s face and his lips red from scratching stubble. That hazy loving look that he gets sometimes, staring down at him with a brow that isn’t creased (for once). </p><p>“Is this alright?” Jon asks. </p><p>“Yes – no, definitely, I just –“</p><p>How is he meant to formulate sentences? With Jon straddling him, looking down at him like that? Thumb stroking his cheek? </p><p>The fire crackles, supplying a response whilst Martin fumbles for one. Looking at Jon isn’t helping, eyes bright and dark all at once. So, he shakes his head, closing his eyes, trying to knock some sense into himself. </p><p>“No, it’s just –“ Martin swallows. “—are you sure? Is this what you want, or…?”</p><p>Jon blinks. “…Yes. If you don’t want to, then of course we don’t have to, I’m not fussed, Martin—" </p><p>“No I do! I do want to, a lot. This is…”</p><p>Martin’s gaze falls to Jon’s lips. He’s leaning in instinctively to kiss them. </p><p>He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut again. </p><p>“No,” Martin continues, “I definitely want to, I just thought that maybe you weren’t… into this sort of thing.” </p><p>Brows raised in understanding. “Ah. Yes, I can see how…” Jon looks down at his hands, which are pressed against Martin’s chest. They fumble with the collar of Martin’s t-shirt. “It’s a little more complicated for me than it seems to be for everyone else. I don’t think it has much to do with attraction, and more…” </p><p>“Oh – yes, I know this!” Martin exclaims, patting Jon on the waist a little excitedly. “There’s a difference between attraction and libido and desire, right? And it’s all sort of – unique to the person what they experience.”</p><p>Jon effects a simultaneous frown and smile, which is impressive. </p><p>Martin flusters. “Is it creepy that I learned a lot about asexuality after internet stalking you?”</p><p>Jon snorts. “Well...”</p><p>“God, sorry.”</p><p>“No, no, it’s fine. It’s good, actually. You’re making this conversation remarkably easy for me.” </p><p>“Oh,” Martin breathes. Seeing the way Jon is watching him, something affectionate softening his watchfulness. “Well, we should have an actual conversation about it at some point, so we both know we’re on the same page with what you’re happy doing. Right?”</p><p>Jon closes his eyes and sighs. It’s not an irritated sound; it looks more like relief, and it makes Martin stroke his face. </p><p> “We don’t have to right now.”</p><p>“No. Not right now,” Jon agrees in a whisper, half opening his eyes and looking at Martin. “Martin.”</p><p> “Yes?” he breathes.  </p><p>“I love you.” Jon kisses him on the cheek. “…I want to be close to you.” He kisses the other cheek, and Martin’s eyes fall closed. “…and more than that, I trust you.” A small, chaste kiss on his lips. “Is that enough?”</p><p>Martin sighs, heartbroken. “Of course. God, Jon, of course, of course—”</p><p>Hands on Jon’s face, he kisses him. He kisses him like he really <i>means</i> it, telling him just how enough Jon is. More than enough, filling every lonely crevice of him, bits of him he didn’t even realise were aching. And he feels Jon’s hands mirroring the action, holding Martin’s face, holding him close and neither of them letting go. </p><p>Martin wraps his arms around Jon’s waist and pulls him close. “I love you –” </p><p>A noise of response, trapped in Jon’s throat. </p><p>It’s a kind of kissing that Martin’s never experienced with anyone else. It’s slow and communicative; Jon kissing, Martin kissing back; talking in breaths and noses pressed against cheeks. It’s the kind of kissing that turns into foreheads leaning against each other, to faces buried against each other’s shoulders. Martin, running his lips up Jon’s neck, hands on his back. Hearing the click of Jon’s throat as he swallows, feeling it move under his lips.</p><p>Jon’s arms around his neck, breathing beside his ear.</p><p>When Martin lets his hands slip under his shirt; when he lets his hand rise slowly along the curve of his back, feeling Jon’s skin rise in goosebumps; when he kisses Jon’s neck. Jon takes in a slow, staggered breath. </p><p>“OK?” </p><p>Jon huffs. “Yes. Martin…”</p><p>He nuzzles his neck. “Just checking up on you…”</p><p>Martin’s hands trace his spine. Jon’s back arches. It’s an almost imperceptible gasp, but Martin hears it. </p><p>The hand in Martin’s hair tightens, just a fraction. </p><p>The weight in Martin’s lap shifts, just the smallest amount. </p><p>He buries his face in Jon’s neck, pulling him closer. </p><p>Jon’s lips find Martin’s again, but they don’t kiss – they hover. And Jon moves, just slightly, moves against him; and the breathes fall out of their mouths at the same time.</p><p>Martin’s hand, splayed against the small of Jon’s back. He can feel it – he can feel the way the muscles in his back move and flex as he rocks into his lap. It set his mind swimming. He can feel the stuttering of Jon’s breathing as their lips brush thoughtlessly, as he kisses him lightly. <i>I’m the luckiest man on the planet,</i> Martin thinks, kissing down his neck again and Jon tilting his head back so he can reach his collar bone. </p><p>Is this real? Is he – is he enjoying this?</p><p>His hands down his back and –</p><p> </p><p>–Jon can feel it all. </p><p>This is the first time he has ever done this and really <i>felt</i> it. This is the first time he has ever shared this part of himself and truly, really enjoyed it – rather than felt it like some out of body experience, his nerve endings shutting off as he goes through the motions. No; this must be what it’s like to trust someone fully, to feel vulnerable and to not be afraid of it. To share and not feel taken.  </p><p>It feels like having his own body and enjoying it. Like hands that he loves holding him, telling him that they’re there. It feels like lips against his that are giving – not searching and devouring. Eyes that watch him with love, not hunger. Jon wants to be close to that love. He wants to mingle with it and fall into it and share what he has in himself.</p><p>Jon moves against Martin – something shaky and experimental, unsure how much further he’s willing to go but enjoying this moment too much to think too far ahead. </p><p>Martin’s hands, falling down his back and making him shiver— it feels nice. It feels good to be handled so gently, so thoughtfully. Then, falling on his hips. And there’s something about feeling Martin’s hands move <i>with</i> him that sets an electric jolt through his chest, and it comes out in a sigh. </p><p>“Jon…”</p><p>Is that Martin checking up on him again? He isn’t sure; he replies with a kiss, rocking into him and Martin guiding his hips and—</p><p>That’s – OK, that’s <i>good</i>.</p><p>Lightheaded. He’s feeling lightheaded because he’s breathing so heavily, he realises, breaths that tumble out of him and turn into mindless, brushing kisses. And the hands on his hips slide down to his thighs, spread across his legs with thumbs stroking upwards and –</p><p>Jon gasps away from the kiss. “Martin—”</p><p>He won’t open his eyes; he’s not ready to. He just feels the way Martin’s thumb gently traces the hardness in his jeans. </p><p>“OK?”</p><p>“Yes,” he rushes. Suddenly embarrassed by his breathlessness. Face so hot he’d think that he was staring into the fireplace. He huffs, nods shakily – “Yes.”</p><p>He can hear Martin swallow. “OK. OK…”</p><p>A hand moving up, inside his shirt. The other, palm against his jeans and running a finger under the waistband. </p><p>“God, Martin—”</p><p>He dives in to kiss him—pushing his head against the back of the sofa, and sucking on his bottom lip. And it occurs to him a sudden dizziness that if he took his trousers off, and if he took <i>Martin’s</i> trousers off, then this could get a whole lot better. And he lets his hands fall down Martin’s chest, fumbles under Martin’s t-shirt, feels the soft landscape of his body and mimics his trajectory; fingers dipping just slightly under the waistband of Martin’s tracksuit bottoms, which –</p><p>Well, they don’t hide nearly as much as Jon’s jeans do. And there’s no unzipping involved, just soft material to—</p><p>Martin’s fingers, unzipping. Skimming along the material of his underwear, thumb tracing down his length.</p><p>His forehead falls against Martin’s. He breathes him in – petrichor and cinnamon and bread and home. </p><p>“Mmm<i>artin</i>—”</p><p>He pulls the material of the tracksuit bottoms away, and Martin laughs a little desperately, lifting his hips to wriggle free of them. </p><p>And then they’re doing a graceless dance of trying to kick each other’s trousers off without losing their position. But of course, such a thing isn’t possible. Jon needs to stand up and step out of his jeans, face burning hot and feeling ridiculous. And Martin is laughing. </p><p>“Yes, <i>thank</i> you, Martin.”</p><p>“I’m not laughing <i>at</i> you,” he says. Laughing. </p><p>Jon takes a moment to stand there, giving Martin a withering look before returning to straddle his lap – one knee, then another. Hands on Martin’s shoulders. And Martin looks up at him like he’s a completely different man to the person Jon has always told himself he was. Someone loveable.</p><p>“You are laughing at me.”</p><p>“Maybe just a bit,” he admits. “But in a totally loving way.”</p><p>Jon grumbles when Martin kisses him; he makes noises of irritation at the smile that Martin presses against his lips. He presses against him, back arched, and it feels – it feels good. Very good. What feels even better is the way Martin’s hands run up his back again. He had no idea it would have this effect, this hot, shivering effect where Jon feels himself go loose and tense all at once. Martin moves to pull his shirt off, and he allows it; arms over his head, the material disappearing somewhere out of sight. </p><p>The lack of clothes does make him a little chilly. But Martin’s hands are warm, and they’re falling over him so softly like a blanket. And if he takes Martin’s t-shirt off, then he can press against him and maybe he’ll be warmer then. So, he does, pulling the hem of his t-shirt over Martin’s head and doing just that – lying as close as possible so they’re skin against skin, and the noise Martin makes is somewhere between a sigh and a moan. </p><p>He’s soft under his hands. His neck tastes like rain and he kisses there, bites gently. And the noise Martin makes <i>then</i> – that’s definitely a moan.  </p><p>The thing about having sex with someone is that even when he found it empty and unsatisfying, there was at least the way he could make the other person go liquid with pleasure. There was satisfaction in that, at least, and now – well, now Jon gets to experience a bit of both. It throws fuel on the fire; that little fire inside him that he’ll share but never give away. </p><p>Moving against Martin now. </p><p>Rocking against him now, with nothing but their underwear – it’s so much better, and Jon sighs, makes a stuttered whimpering sound in Martin’s ear that he’s terribly aware of. It makes him flushed with embarrassment. But it’s good, so he doesn’t stop. </p><p>Jon feels Martin’s hands on his bare thighs; they find his hips, rolling with his movements. And the way Martin is panting into his mouth now as they kiss—</p><p>“Ah—”</p><p>He hears himself, just as he finds the perfect pace, the perfect spot and movement. Thighs quivering with the effort but Martin’s hands at the small of his back and bum, keeping him there. </p><p>“Martin,” he breathes.</p><p>“God, Jon—yeah, that’s—”</p><p>It’s an amazing thing, being able to see Martin like this. He watches him now, looking down at the mouth hanging open and the brow creased, hair ruffled by his own hands: wrecked. Eyes closed and lips read from kisses. </p><p>It’s amazing, too, being able to see the moment where Martin starts to lose it. </p><p>“Jon,” he begs. </p><p>Jon goes to kiss him. And he moves in small, fast movements – he doesn’t think he can handle slow and deliberate much longer. Small, fast moments that make him out of breath, both of them out of breath, Martin’s hands clinging tighter onto his hips. And it’s just right – it’s just the right spot – if he just –</p><p>A groan, trickling out of his own mouth. </p><p>For Martin, apparently that’s what it takes – toppling over into gasping moans. Shaking hands finding Jon’s face to kiss him. </p><p>Jon stops. He freezes, sitting back in Martin’s lap and kissing him softly, carefully. He runs his hands through his hair, kisses his forehead. </p><p>Martin sighs, tipping his forehead to rest against Jon’s shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting that.”</p><p>A low chuckle that comes from somewhere in his chest. Martin’s hands on his hips still sending shivers through him. “The outcome, or the event itself?”</p><p>“The… what?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Jon whispers, kissing him gently on the lips. </p><p>With that, he angles to remove himself from Martin’s lap.</p><p>“Wait – aren’t you…?” </p><p>Jon looks down. Shrugs with the tilt of his head. “It’s not… I don’t mind. It’s not always particularly easy to get me to…” He fills in the rest of his sentence by nodding his head emphatically. </p><p>“But…” Martin’s hand on hip, moving to his waistband again. “Do you want me to keep going? Because I’m more than happy to.”</p><p>“I’m…” As soon as he’s told people that ‘satisfying’ him isn’t an easy task, they usually take that as an offer not to try at all. This is new territory. “Alright.”</p><p>Dark eyes, still a little hazy, curls falling into his face. Martin’s hair has grown. “I mean, we don’t have to. Honestly, Jon, we never – I don’t expect anything, I’m just happy being with you. But if you ever want me to…”</p><p>“Yes,” he nods, mouth a little dry. Strange, that Jon’s suddenly feeling bashful, after spending however long rutting against him. “OK.”</p><p>Martin blinks. Smiles. Places a gentle kiss on Jon’s neck, where he’s at the perfect height to nuzzle. “OK,” he says against his skin. </p><p>The hand fiddling with his waistband skirts cautiously underneath. And it’s that electric shock feeling – that point of gravity in his stomach that feels like it’s getting denser and denser. Martin’s hand so gentle and careful, slow when it moves to wrap around him. </p><p>“Fuck – Martin…”</p><p>“I’m here,” he mumbles against his shoulder. </p><p>Jon buries his face in the curls of Martin’s hair. </p><p>And it’s not even the way Martin’s thumb runs along the sensitive skin, or the way he leaves lazy kisses on Jon’s collarbone, or the way his hand tickles up and down his back just the way he likes. It’s the way he whispers to him all the way through, leaving offerings of words against his skin. That’s what makes Jon begin to fall apart, his breaths fast and desperate as he rocks into Martin’s fist. </p><p>“Jon…”</p><p>“God—”</p><p>Choking his name until it comes out more like a sob. And Martin holds him as it floods through him – a kind of relief and pleasure that he’s not experienced with another person before. </p><p>The fire has gone out in the hearth. Jon notices when he falls out of Martin’s lap, legs thrown across him clumsily. With his head against Martin’s arm, they both watch the last embers burn. </p><p>Martin, stroking his bare arm. </p><p>“You can ask, Martin.”</p><p>He leans away to look at Jon’s face. “What?”</p><p>“Whatever it is you’d like to ask. About, how I… feel. On the topic of asexuality. Like you said, it’s probably best to be explicit.”</p><p>He hums. “Alright, yeah. But, I think this calls for a cup of tea first, don’t you?”</p><p>A smile spreads across his face and he closes his eyes to appreciate the feeling even more. “A very good plan. Could you pass me my shirt when you’re up?”</p><p>What time is it? What day of the week? Neither of them know, nor do they care. All they know is that there’s a fireplace that needs relighting and a kettle that needs boiling.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>TA-DA!</p><p>I want to say a huge thank you to people who've been reading this as I write!!! I put this out there pretty speedily and it's been nice to read such lovely comments. </p><p>I hope you enjoy this final chapter. &lt;3</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been so long since he’s heard a phone ring that it takes Jon a moment to register what he’s hearing. A second ago, he’d been fast asleep in Martin’s arms – now, he’s wrestling to escape his bear grip, wincing at the bedside table where his Nokia vibrates like a drill. </p><p>“Christ, what time is it…?” he groans. </p><p>Martin’s head snaps up from the pillow, woken just as horribly as Jon from his deep sleep. “What’s…?”</p><p>Jon sits up gingerly. The phone continues to vibrate on the bedside table, with such force it looks like it might jump onto the floor. </p><p>“Martin,” he says. </p><p>Because, now it dawns on him that someone is on the other end of that call. Someone has this phone number – and it could be Daisy and Basira, or it could be someone else. Slowly, he reaches for the phone and looks at the screen: it’s a mobile number he doesn’t recognise.</p><p>At his side, Martin props himself up on his elbows. “Do you think you should answer it?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he says, watching the phone judder in his hand. Then, “If Daisy and Basira thought it was safe to take us home, they could have come over themselves. They said they were nearby, they should…”</p><p>It’s been ringing for about thirty seconds. At this point, if he wants to answer it, he should do it now. </p><p>Jon presses the green button. </p><p>“…Hello?”</p><p>A pause. “<i>Morning, boss—”</i></p><p>“Oh, <i>BLOODY HELL</i>, Tim,” Jon growls. He collapses against the headboard of the bed. </p><p>Martin laughs lightly beside him. </p><p>There’s another pause. <i>“What? Did you think I was Peter Lukas or something?”</i> he snorts.</p><p>“Yes. Actually. That was a genuine concern that I had.”</p><p>
  <i>“Yeah, yeah, alright. How’s it been, brooding in Scotland?” </i>
</p><p>“I haven’t been <i>brooding.</i>” Martin raises his brows at him, and Jon rolls his eyes. “I finished the final draft of <i>Into Apocalypse.</i>”</p><p>
  <i>“Well, thank fuck for that. I was beginning to wonder whether this whole debacle had put you off Rogue Archivist.” </i>
</p><p>“It very nearly did.”</p><p><i>“Honestly? Fair enough,</i>” Tim says, voice taking on a tension that Jon doesn’t often hear. Then, <i>“Did I wake you up?” </i></p><p>“As a matter of fact, yes. It’s…” Jon fumbles for his glasses, blinks through them to read the time on his watch. “Christ, Tim, it’s barely six o’clock.”</p><p>“<i>Trust me, I’m fully aware. I won’t be long, I just—"</i> For a moment, Jon thinks they’ve lost signal. They are in the middle of the remotest remote, after all. But then, Tim’s voice returns, light and airy: <i>“How’s Martin?”</i></p><p>Jon just wants to go back to sleep. “He’s fine.”</p><p>
  <i>“Say hi to him from me.” </i>
</p><p>Jon sighs, rolls his head wearily – turns to Martin. “Tim says hello.”</p><p>Martin purses his lips against a laugh. And it’s only then that Jon realises what he’s fallen for.</p><p>“<i>AHA! I knew you guys were a thing! I knew it! You just woke up, which means you’re sharing a bed with Martin—” </i></p><p>“For God’s sake,” Jon moans, face in his hands. “Tim – you call me at six o’clock in the morning, without warning, when I’m meant to be out of contact from anybody in the outside world, and then <i>you</i> of all people ring me up just to prove a theory? That was – that was totally unfair, I’m hardly awake yet, and—”</p><p>“<i>No, no, that isn’t why I called, although – I mean, I owe Helen twenty quid, I figured the stick was way too far up your arse for you to tell him how you feel—”</i></p><p>Pinching his nose. “Message received.”</p><p>
  <i>“See, if I had your address, I’d be posting the biggest punch of red roses right now. A barbershop quartet. When you’re back in London—”</i>
</p><p>“Under no circumstances, Tim, and I mean under <i>no</i> circumstances whatsoever, are you to send a barbershop quartet to my flat.”</p><p>That, understandably, gets Martin laughing, duvet pulled over his head. Jon elbows him lightly. </p><p>“<i>Well, you don’t know, maybe Martin likes that sort of thing!” </i></p><p>“He has no choice in the matter.”</p><p>Martin’s head pops out again. “Hey!”</p><p>Jon lets his head knock against the wall. “Tim. Why are you ringing me?”</p><p>“<i>Party pooper. I’ve been toiling down in here in London, trying to get you a publishing agreement with someone who hasn’t been convicted of embezzlement and extortion. And this is thanks I get.” </i></p><p>Sitting upright in bed. Staring unseeingly into the bedroom’s morning light. “What?”</p><p>“<i>Ooooooh, yes. See, you don’t have wifi or anything up there so I figured you hadn’t seen. Elias Doucheard has been arrested. Can you believe it?”</i></p><p>Jon blinks. Drags a hand over his mouth. “My God. No. I really can’t.”</p><p>“<i>Obviously, ever since shit hit the fan, I’ve been trying to find a new publisher for you. You and I always had our suspicions that Elias was friendly with the Lukas’, but I mean, it’s been pretty much proven by this point. Daisy and Basira have been privately investigating him for a while, which is why they were assigned to you.” </i></p><p>“Christ,” Jon breaths, hand still in front of his mouth. He feels Martin’s concerned palm against his back, warm and grounding – he acknowledges it with a little nod. “That’s… well. I don’t know what to say.”</p><p>Tim seems to wait, just in case Jon decides he does. </p><p>“What about Lukas?” Jon asks suddenly.</p><p>A snort. <i>“It’s a miracle that Elias was convicted – there’s no way we’re going to be seeing Lukas behind bars any time soon. Sorry, boss.”</i></p><p>It makes him despair in the state of their judicial system, not for the first time. “Right.”</p><p>“<i>Anyway – my point is, Jon, I’ve actually been looking for a new publisher for you for a while. Ever since we got signed on by Magnus, the whole thing gave me the creeps. And it has been very hard indeed.” </i></p><p>That age-old sinking feeling. Jon crosses his legs, leans forwards in bed; feels the hand on his back. “I see.”</p><p>“<i>Nah,” </i>Tim laughs. “<i>Nah, see – thing is, usually you do ‘see’, but this time you don’t at all. I didn’t manage to find another publisher, not just because of your contract, because quite frankly I think that’s void with all of this drama, moral rights and everything – but I did find something else.” </i></p><p>“Please get to the point, Tim.”</p><p>“<i>Someone’s got to run Magnus Books now Elias has been put away. So, take a guess. Guess who it is.” </i></p><p>At that, Jon turns and looks at Martin – who, obviously, can only hear this side of the conversation, but is looking back at Jon seriously. </p><p>“Who?”</p><p>A relieved sigh. “<i>It took a lot of persuading on my part. But you know I’m a charmer—"</i></p><p>“Who, Tim?”</p><p>A laugh. And then, as if he can’t believe Jon hadn’t guessed: “<i>Gertrude.” </i></p><p>***</p><p>It had been sad to leave; sad, but necessary. Jon and Martin packed their two little weekend bags, gathered what food was left over, and got in the car with Daisy and Basira that very afternoon.  Jon had reached for Martin’s hand when he noticed the way he bit his lip and swallowed too loudly, staring out of the window and watching the safehouse recede into the hills. </p><p>That was the last they ever saw of their little cottage. </p><p>Years later, they would consider trying to find it again. They’d go on holidays to Skye or the Orkney Islands or Pitlochry or Loch Lomond; they would drive through the ragged mountains of Northern Scotland, but they’d never be able to find it. The safehouse would always be just that: safe, where it could never be found again. At least, not without Daisy and Basira. </p><p>Somehow, neither consider asking them. Perhaps it would ruin the magic of what that place once held for them. </p><p>***</p><p>Jon isn’t used to new furniture. New, shiny furniture and shiny floors all in grey, like they’re in a Scandinavian design catalogue. After living for a month in a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere without proper central heating or hot water, he would have thought that he wouldn’t be fussy; and yet, somehow, the feel of this flat overlooking Waterloo train station makes him feel uneasy.</p><p>Not a true uneasiness, mind – it’s more a lack of homeliness, one that’s only eased by Martin’s presence as he fills a kettle and takes out mugs for tea. Jon has never considered himself the kind of person who takes ‘home’ very seriously, having never felt particularly at home anywhere. However, it occurs to him now as he strokes the back of a square, grey sofa, that he’s used to dark heavy furniture. Chests with strange little engravings to get lost in. His mother’s and grandparents’ things, hand-me-downs from a life in Nepal that he never knew. Something about the perfection of this grey and white place makes him anxious to keep it perfect, to keep it tidy and uncomplicated, and it isn’t particularly relaxing. </p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>“Hmm?” A little surprised to find Martin viewing him thoughtfully from the kitchen. “Sorry. I… zoned out, I suppose.”</p><p>“What are you thinking about?”</p><p>Jon’s finger continues to run along the back of the sofa, the material making his skin go raw with repetition. “It’s nothing, it’s silly, really.”</p><p>The kettle clicks, and Martin abandons it. Holding out his hands, Jon pulls himself away from the sofa and takes them – warm hands that he knows. Their arms make a circle like they’re about to play ring-around-a-rosie in the playground. Or, like they’re standing in front of an altar. </p><p>“It’s not my idea of a home either,” Martin admits with a smile. “But it’s just temporary.”</p><p>They both know it has little to do with whether or not they like this place. They’ve both been in positions of couch surfing, waiting for eviction letters; the sorts of things that make you unfussy. No, this is something else. </p><p>“That’s the problem,” Jon replies, watching their hands swing playfully. “The temporariness of it is… exhausting. I’d like to just settle down somewhere and stay there.”</p><p>“I know.” Martin looks like he does. He pulls Jon in. “I know.”</p><p>He allows himself to be drawn into a hug, the type that he knows well now: cheek against collar bone, hands between shoulder blades. A wrapped-up kind of hug that feels better than he previously understood hugs could be. </p><p>There’s a little balcony. Well, a larger balcony than the one Jon used to have – and it overlooks the train station like it’s simply part of their back garden. It’s an amazing apartment and he can’t help but feel guilty for not being more appreciative of it. There’s a garden sofa made of wicker, and Jon sits and examines the train tracks whilst Martin putters about making tea. </p><p>Jon lays an arm across Martin’s shoulders once he’s joined him, and they sit in the light of the setting sun.</p><p>“Well, this is alright, isn’t it?”</p><p>Jon laughs, unexpectedly for both of them. “Yes. It’s pretty ‘alright’.”</p><p>“Not often you get to… watch the rosy sunset reflecting off the pockmarked stone of London monuments.”</p><p>He looks at Martin, who shrugs. “Look at you, waxing poetic.”</p><p>“Well…” the smile falls away into something more introspective. “I have actually been thinking of. I dunno. Trying to submit my poetry somewhere?”</p><p>It makes him incredibly happy. There’s no other way to put it. “Oh?”</p><p>“It’s not like I think it’ll <i>actually</i> get published,” he laughs. “But you know, there’s no harm in trying, I guess? I wrote a lot when we were in Scotland, and… thinking about it, I should probably get used to showing it to people before I submit it.”</p><p>“If you feel comfortable with that,” Jon replies, keeping his voice even. </p><p>“I mean. It feels sort of weird showing it to you. Not just because you’re a big fancy author and stuff—”</p><p>Jon snorts. </p><p>“—you are! It’s intimidating for the rest of us, OK?”</p><p>“I intimidate you?” he says with some amusement. </p><p>“Not really, no, obviously, but you are — <i>literally</i> world famous. Anyway, my poetry is sort of… a lot of the poems are sort of about you. So, it would feel a bit rude to try and publish them without showing you. I wouldn’t want you to get a copy and the read through it and realise belatedly that they’re basically about me, er, fawning.”</p><p>Stunned. To silence. </p><p>“Don’t look at me like that,” he flusters, hiding his face in his hands. “It would be really embarrassing, more than it already is, alright? Except I have a feeling this poetry’s actually kind of good, and I’m trying to be more confident in myself.”</p><p>“I think that’s wonderful,” Jon says. Although the smile in his voice is obvious, and Martin makes an angry noise of humiliation behind his hands. “<i>Mar</i>tin, come on.”</p><p>“It’s really cringey isn’t it?”</p><p>“I don’t think anyone’s written poetry about me before…”</p><p>“Stop it Jon!” Martin elbows him in the ribs. “If you don’t want me to publish them then I obviously won’t, but I can… I mean, if you want to see them, then, I probably should let you.”</p><p>It takes some effort to swallow down what he’s feeling. It’s a lot, and he wants so badly to laugh at how lovely this is. “Only if you want to. I don’t mind reading them when they’re published.”</p><p>“<i>When,</i>” Martin scoffs.</p><p>“Well. There’s little point in pessimism.”</p><p>At that, Martin leans away from him and looks him up and down with enormous judgement. “I’m sorry? You’re the most pessimistic man alive, Jonathan Sims.”</p><p>“I beg your pardon?”</p><p>A dramatic hand flies to his forehead. “’<i>There’s no point Martin… nothing I do will ever change the way things are, Martin…’</i>”</p><p>“That is – I’m not like that at all!”</p><p>“Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” Martin laughs, drawing Jon into a hug – who is frowning for good show. </p><p>“I’m proud of you,” Jon says. “Even if it doesn’t end up being published. I’m proud that you’re seeing that you’re talented enough to try.”</p><p>A long, drawn out sigh that makes Jon’s head rise and fall on his shoulder. “Thank you.”</p><p>The sun dips behind the horizon and the sky burns pink. </p><p>***</p><p>The bakery is busy throughout the rest of the summer. Jon comes to write there every day, rarely seeing Martin, who stays in the kitchen making cakes and breads on demand. The cabinet empties quickly, and it seems that Martin’s work is endless, but good. </p><p>Melanie and Georgie will tease Jon for still setting up camp at the bakery. They tease him for the two ‘regulars’ who have started visiting the bakery since they returned from Scotland: a small, stern Welshwoman and an even sterner woman with perfect winged eyeliner. At first it feels strange, to have Daisy and Basira join him at the bakery. But it seems better this way, for the time being, than living in fear of being ambushed. Besides, they make better company than any of them could have expected. </p><p>And the queues stay long, the cakes stay delicious, and Barker &amp; King have to hire more bakers to keep up the demand. Martin ends up being promoted to Head Baker – though he doesn’t realise it until Georgie hands him his pay check at the end of his second month back, and nearly faints. </p><p>There will be evenings in the bakery when the customers have gone and the chairs are being stacked onto the tables, and all of them will sit and finish what leftovers there might be from the kitchen. Georgie will uncork wine and they’ll sit in the empty café, sitting on the till or freshly wiped-down tables and sharing stories of their day. </p><p>If you walk down Macklin Street at seven o’clock, you’ll be able to hear them laughing – windows open and a sign saying ‘closed’. </p><p>***</p><p>“Hang on—”</p><p>Jon slows. Beyond his reflection in the window, rows of properties to rent and buy. Estate agents always inspire an element of awe and anxiety in Jon, who has spent much of his life associating moving house with feelings such as <i>am I going to end up living in my car again?</i> and <i>will Georgie mind me staying with her whilst I search?</i> Big windows with spotlights on houses that look like people could only afford them in movies. A future that feels like someone else’s. </p><p>Things are different now, though. Different enough that he can read the descriptions of these houses and only feel a sense of imposter syndrome, rather than defeatism. </p><p>Martin retraces his steps to join Jon’s side. “Which one were you looking at?”</p><p>It’s funny that Jon still considers himself a realist, a sceptic; and yet he knows that this isn’t true, that this is simply something he tells himself. Thinking back on all the moments in his life that seem too special to be anything other than a miracle; a feeling of the universe coming together in one little spot in his chest, a feeling of rightness, something supernatural and good. This is another one of those moments. </p><p>He’d felt it when he first saw Martin. Perhaps it’s time to stop pretending that fate doesn’t exist. </p><p>Jon points, trying not to touch the glass. A photo of a mews, cobbled and pretty and colourful – and at the end of the courtyard, a brown bricked house with an olive green door. A surprisingly large interior considering its chocolate box façade, with French windows opening onto the back garden. Original feature cornices and fireplaces. It’s a lovely looking building, to be sure; Jon can’t put his finger on why he’s drawn to it, why he knows it’s right. He simply… knows. </p><p>“Oooh, wow. That’s beautiful.”</p><p>“Yes,” Jon replies, sounding like he’s in a trance to his own ears. “It is, isn’t it?”</p><p>“It’s also two and a half million,” Martin remarks with some amusement. “I’ll just dip into the funds that mummy dearest set aside for me, shall I? And maybe pick up a lottery ticket on the way home?”</p><p>It’s got four bedrooms. And a garage, which is a miracle in of itself in London. It’s near the bakery, and near enough to Magnus; they could both walk to work if they wanted to.</p><p>“Jon?” Martin asks. </p><p>It’s easy to hear the uneasiness in his voice. “Well… it’s. Not… impossible.”</p><p>“<i>Jon</i>?”</p><p>“I’ve been saving for a rainy day for a while,” he tries to explain. “And what with the books doing so well… I do give most of it to charity, I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a miser—”</p><p>“Jonathan Sims—” Martin rounds on him, a hand on his arm. “Are you… are you trying to tell me that you’re a millionaire?”</p><p>This conversation was always going to come up at some point. Better on a nice sunny day like today, looking at properties with the man he loves. “Well, like I said, I give most of it to charity, but with <i>Into Apocalypse</i> coming out, I could hold some of the royalties back for a mortgage. And I have enough to pay most of it upfront—”</p><p>“UPFRONT?” </p><p>“Martin—” He doesn’t know why he’s feeling self-conscious. No one in London cares about anything happening around them. “—yes. Alright? Yes, I have a fair bit put away for…”</p><p>“Rainy days?”</p><p>“It’s a habit.”</p><p>Martin looks horrified. Which Jon can understand, honestly, but he doesn’t want to cause any more disgust than necessary. </p><p>“I’ve – well, I’ve never spent much on myself, and the charities I donate to are very well accredited, and… Martin, had you not considered that as a bestselling author--?”</p><p>“Authors don’t make any money,” Martin blurts. “Right? At least, I mean, that’s what I thought? Like, all the money that the books make basically go back to making the next print run or whatever. Obviously you had a good bit, I’ve seen your old flat – and I know there are some bestselling authors who make millions but – but this is -- <i>really</i>? Really? You weren’t going to mention this at all until now?”</p><p>“Well, why would I!”</p><p>“Because I’ve been going on Zoopla looking at flats under four hundred thousand!”</p><p>“Alright, well, now you can broaden the price range a little. Yes?”</p><p>“Yes. Fine!”</p><p>This feels like an argument. Except it’s not, and they both realise it at the same time – Martin’s look of horror morphing into a smile. Jon casts his gaze up to the sky and shakes his head. </p><p>“I know it’s my lunchbreak…” Martin steps closer to Jon, a hand on both his arms. “And I’ve only got about fifteen minutes. But do you want to go talk to someone about the house?”</p><p>“Do you even like it?”</p><p>“You are joking? It’s stunning. But, I mean, are you happy spending that much? I’ll obviously help, but my savings account wouldn’t even scratch the surface. We’ve – we’ve only been together a year, and—”</p><p>“That’s not a problem for me, Martin. I’ve been saving for nothing, I may as well actually use the money I’m putting away.”</p><p>A pause. They both look at the photo. A cobbled mews and a feeling of <i>yes, that one.</i></p><p>“You want to go look at it,” Martin supplies. “You’re just too awkward to say.”</p><p>Jon sighs. “It’s not that I’m awkward, it just feels… silly.”</p><p>“Silly?”</p><p>“Yes, silly,” he retorts, bristling a little. “I have these moments of… almost a premonition. And it’s silly because I wouldn’t believe in that sort of thing, if it weren’t for the fact that I experience it every now and then.”</p><p>“Intuition?”</p><p>He sucks on his teeth. “Not quite.”</p><p>And then he looks at Martin. Quiet and listening and head tilted in thought, dark eyes on Jon. Whether it was premonition or something else, he is glad that it brought him to Martin. He closes his eyes and sighs in resignation. </p><p>“Yes. Alright. Let’s go show our interest – quickly. I don’t want to make you late.”</p><p>***</p><p>
  <i><b>Interview with Jonathan Sims, author of the ‘Rogue Archivist’ series for The Bookseller [TB]</b><br/>
TB: Thanks for coming, Jon. Er, you’re sure you don’t mind me recording? It’s just so I can transcribe more easily, but anything you want off the record, just let me know. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Ah – yes, that’s fine. I occasionally record myself reading my manuscripts out loud, so I’m not particularly shy in that respect. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Oh right – yeah, I’ve, er, I’ve heard that it’s a helpful editing process. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: It can be helpful. I’ve never been fond of editing my own work, as it can become… a little obsessive. I can get too sucked into my stories if I simply read it and look for things to change. Sometimes, reading it aloud lets me distance myself so it isn’t rattling around inside my head – the, er, the characters’ voices are clearer out loud. That probably doesn’t make much sense, does it?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: No, no, I mean, I’m sure there are loads of people who’d relate to that. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Right.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: So – I want to start of saying that I’m really pleased to be able to meet you and have this opportunity to, er, you know, lay out anything you want to lay out, or whatever you’d like to talk about. I tried looking up other interviews you’ve done, and I couldn’t find any.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Yes, this will be my first proper interview. My agent has worked very hard to make sure I have some semblance of privacy, but – well, you’ll know that there isn’t much point in me trying anymore. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Yes. We’ll get to that in a bit, if you’re comfortable talking about the Lukas affair. I was, I was pretty interested to get the email from your agent saying you wanted to have a chat. Did Lukas change that? Or is it the release of your final book that’s triggered this?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [sighs] That is a question that I’m not sure I know the answer to, yet. I would say that, yes, I felt that the attack put things into perspective for me. Lukas made it very obvious that I’m not as anonymous as I’d like. Other events have thrown that into question, too, of course… my, er, ex, you could say. That was… unpleasant.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Are you referring to the anonymous submission to Heat Magazine about your sexual orientation?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [huffs] Yes. I am.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: I can imagine that would make you re-evaluate a few things. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: It did rather prove that there’s little I can do to maintain privacy when I’m, ah, relatively famous. People not knowing what I look like doesn’t always make much difference. If people don’t like me, they can hurt me. Of course, that was always true… I don’t know. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: So maybe you’d like to set the record straight, perhaps? </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Well… what record is there to set straight? I can’t think of anything I need to clarify. I don’t owe anyone any information about myself. That being said… I would rather donate information about myself willingly than be put in that position again. And… [hesitates]</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Do you feel like you need to raise your voice about certain issues on tabloid culture and privacy?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [sighs] My friends would tell you that I don’t know what social media is. That I am… allergic to sites like Twitter. In a sense, they aren’t wrong, I lead a very old-fashioned lifestyle, but I’m not entirely ignorant. I’ve actively chosen not to have a social media presence because I don’t believe that people need to know my every waking thought. Honestly, the idea of that terrifies me. But my… my boyfriend. He’s – I wouldn’t say he’s converted me to using social media, but he, ah, he has shown me the benefits of using a platform to make your voice heard. Doing good. I’ve always been the sort of person who’s felt overwhelmed by the futility of things, and he is a lot more – [laughs quietly] he pushes me to do better. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: So, is that what you’re doing today? Is TB your platform?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: TB is a respected magazine for the publishing industry and has a presence within certain spheres. I would rather I speak to you and have you share this conversation on social media than get Twitter account myself. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Alright. Well, er, obviously, I’ve said already, we’re really excited to talk to you and, um, that you’ve chosen to chat to us today, whatever it is you’d like to discuss or get off your chest. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Right. Er. Well, thank you.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: So. Where shall we start? I have some prompt questions but feel free to lead this yourself since you requested this. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: O-OK. Yes.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: OK? If you’re nervous, we can just chat about the weather for a few minutes first.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: No, no, it’s fine. How about – how about we talk about the book first?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Great. So, ‘Into Apocalypse’ is your fifth and final book. I think it’s fair to say ‘Mr Pesticide’ was a debut novel that immediately kicked off your career, and the rest of the series has solidified your name as one of the big names in the publishing industry at the moment.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Ah – thank you. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: So, everyone talks about how much they loved ‘Hunting Lonely’. Personally, I don’t know, controversial maybe – I loved ‘Screaming Paranoia’, probably because I was expecting the second book to be worse than the first, which, you know, they usually are. But the fear and obsessive paranoia that you put your main character through, that was really – whew.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Er – yes, I did ‘put him through it’, you could say.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: But I think I won’t be the only one who thinks that Rogue Archivist has gone down a much darker route than we anticipated. Not just in terms of villains, but in the protagonist’s characterisation – psychologically, he’s really deteriorated throughout the series and we can feel his struggle very keenly. Has that been hard to write?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Not at all. Actually, writing his descent into paranoid delusions and hopelessness is what has made writing this series bearable. There’s always an element of projecting your own problems onto a character when you’re writing – the… idea that an author’s characters are just anthropomorphised cut-offs of their own personality. Having that as an opportunity to channel my own experiences is what has kept me, to put it simply, sane.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: [laughs] So you find it cathartic to torture your readers?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: That… isn’t the intention—</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: No, no, of course, I can see that. I’m pulling your leg, sorry Jon. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: No, it’s fine.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: So have you continued that mood in ‘Into Apocalypse’?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [pauses] I don’t want to ruin it. All I can say is that no one is going to be OK.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Oh, God. That’s… going to traumatise a lot of us, isn’t it?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Very possibly. Sorry. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Now, this is a bit of a cliché question, but it’s interesting hearing different authors’ views. Are you sad that it’s coming to an end?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Yes and no. Which is probably the answer you were expecting. Yes, in the sense that this is the series that has made me the author I am today. I owe a lot to this series, even if I didn’t always enjoy writing it. In fact, there were times where I nearly threw in the towel. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: May I ask why?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: I, ah… I don’t feel like my writing is particularly good. A bestselling series isn’t what I had really imagined when I was a snobby Oxford student in my damp little dorm room. At times, I found it very… unnatural to write it. It didn’t come out naturally after the first book. It felt forced, writing Rogue Archivist, but – well, I’ve always written. It’s a compulsive act for me, so I was torn between having to write it and not being able to. That is not a pleasant dichotomy.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: No.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: This last book has not been easy to write, and, frankly, I’m relieved to have finished it. It leaves room for other projects.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Other projects! Now, right, OK, you’ve excited me now.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [huffs] Yes, well, don’t get your hopes up. It is very different in style, and I’m planning to publish under a pseudonym. If I ever publish it at all.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Mysterious. So, you find that you need a sort of drive to write something outside of your – you said ‘compulsion’?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Yes. I don’t need it, but it makes it a far more enjoyable process.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Right. So, you’ve found some kind of inspiration to write these other projects.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [smiles] Yes, you could say that. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: I’m going to use this as an opportunity to… make an awkward segue into your relationship. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [sighs] I suppose there’s little point avoiding it. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Do you feel the change in your circumstances over the past year and a half has changed the way you write, or the type of things you write?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Not entirely. It’s still what I want to write deep down, but the tone might be a little more complex… when you have several sources of inspiration. And when something or someone new comes into your life, it can take your story in a suddenly very different direction. Which I would argue has been the case since I started dating Martin, yes. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: I know you said you’d be using a pseudonym—I’ll just keep an eye out for a horror mystery novel that turns into a romance about halfway through, yeah?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Very witty. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Er – you mentioned earlier that this interview was somewhat prompted by an experience you had with an ex. And that you felt that having some control over what the public know about you is what has motivated this conversation. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Yes. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Is there anything that you’d like to talk about, with that? Er, with relationships in general and… you.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [pauses] You’re asking me to respond to what he said. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Yeah, sorry, that was a bit sloppy.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [sighs] I’m not sure what to say or how to say it. I spoke to Martin about this in great detail. We agreed that I shouldn’t have to respond, and I don’t particularly want to. That being said… I might be able to do something good, if I can work around my feelings of… helplessness. Which that ex certainly did make me feel. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: I’m not surprised. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Yes. Being outed is not something that anyone should have to endure. I doubt many people know what it is like to be outed as asexual, though. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: No. Would you be happy to talk a little about that?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [pauses] I spent a long time thinking that I was broken. That sounds very cliched – let me rephrase. People have a habit of viewing the world through their own experiences. If you feel one thing, then it is very hard to imagine that anyone else may feel differently. The idea that anyone could feel differently doesn’t occur to you until someone says that they don’t share your experiences. That can be jarring, and I think that this is the route of a lot of misunderstanding in relation to asexuality and the aromantic spectrum.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Right.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: This is a society which surrounds itself quite comfortably with sex and romance. The media has no qualms with making the two synonymous. And people therefore often don’t consider that there is an option to want neither. To want neither makes you an alien in a hyper-relationship focused culture. There are many people who are made to feel alien like this, myself included, and there are even more who perhaps don’t realise what being asexual or aromantic is. If you live your life believing that everyone feels attraction and love in exactly the same way – even if it is towards different people – then you will never consider the possibility that some people might not experience it at all. You will think that there are those who are normal, and those who are not. And, unfortunately, there are plenty of people who think they fall into the latter group, and because of that feel… broken. Unfinished, or damaged. A faulty product surrounded by people who have been built ‘right’.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Right, yeah, yeah. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: It is a very frightening existence, to live like that. The LGBTQIA+ community will know that feeling well, and yet there’s a… honestly, an astonishing amount of ignorance within that very same community, which we’ve seen with my ex’s comments.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Yeah, yeah. Do you feel that people just don’t know what asexuality is? Even if someone explains it to them, they just don’t get it?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Yes, because I think, like I said, that this is a culture which is so focused on relationships and how they ought to fulfil us, and what we should have in a relationship – that we feel like we <b>have</b> to want it. And if you have lived your life wanting it, experiencing romantic and sexual attraction, then you are privileged enough to fit into that snug, societal expectation. And you will never – quite frankly, if you are not asexual and have never heard of asexuality, you will never have considered what it is like to not experience sexual attraction. Because your existence is the paradigm. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Do you feel that there are lot of people who don’t fit into that paradigm, and just don’t realise?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: Yes. I was one of them. Asexuality is only now becoming a term that is used in the mainstream – although, you don’t see many characters in fiction or on TV who might provide any kind of representation. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>TB: Do you feel a responsibility to provide that representation? </i>
</p><p>
  <i>JS: [pauses for a long time] It’s not a matter of responsibility or representation. I simply… am asexual. I exist. And I think others deserve to know that they exist, too. </i>
</p><p>***</p><p>It smells of dust and old things, and it’s making Jon need to sneeze. He’s trying very hard not to do that, because Martin has mentioned that his sneezes are ‘literally like a volcano erupting’ and he isn’t interested in being teased for it if he can help it. </p><p>Unpacking in a freshly painted living room. They’d painted it themselves, citing unnecessary costs of decoration, tacitly agreeing that it would also be enjoyable to do together. There’s a little splodge on the windowsill where Martin had accidentally slipped during a giggle fit. Jon doesn’t remember what he’d said, but it had made them both laugh, and seeing that paint splodge opens those feelings up to him like a cardboard box unfolding.  </p><p>“Jon – is this you?”</p><p>Jon is knelt by the wooden chest of curtains and table runners that his grandmother had left behind. Unsure what to do with them, he abandons them easily and sits beside Martin and the box he is unpacking. He passes a photo to Jon. He takes it carefully, leaving no fingerprints on the edges. The sun reflects so it’s hard to see who’s looking back at him; angling it, the first person he sees is his mother. </p><p>She looks like him. He’d inherited so many of her looks – especially the nose. The shape of his face. A feeling of curiosity, rather than loss: what had she been like? Why doesn’t he remember her more? What he does remember is the cardigan she’s wearing in this photo, an ‘80s monstrosity of pastel colours. She’s smiling at the camera. Does his smile look like hers? He’s not sure. </p><p>His mother holds the hands of a toddler as he learns to walk, wearing a bright red, puffy romper. A serious expression as he concentrates on where he puts his feet. This is the park near where they lived in Bournemouth, he realises; he recognises the fountain. </p><p>“I must be around two years old here,” he remarks. He wonders whether he’s supposed to feel more, but he doesn’t. “There’s no timestamp or note on the back.”</p><p>“You’re so <i>cute,</i>” Martin says through his teeth, leaning into Jon’s shoulder. “Look at you in your little ‘80s onesie.”</p><p>“Whoever invented those has a lot to answer for.”</p><p>The street outside is quiet. Their little corner of London is always quiet. </p><p>“Your mum was really beautiful,” Martin says more quietly. </p><p>“Yes,” he replies, with a sigh. “She was.”</p><p>They don’t find any more loose photos from Jon’s past. They do discover a whole album of Martin from when he was a baby, which brings great amusement to both. Unpacking takes several days, purely because neither of them know what they might find inside any given box. </p><p>Jon and his mother sit framed on the mantel piece.  </p><p>***</p><p>“Guys, seriously, that was amazing.”</p><p>“Delicious.”</p><p>“I find it insulting that neither of you told us Jon could cook.”</p><p>“I feel like a complete dick hosting our dinner parties for this long and making whatever shit I can pull together.”</p><p>It’s the first nice day of spring, which has given them an excuse to move the group outside. It did mean that they had to mow the lawn yesterday, though, which is something neither of them have experience in, having been raised in homes without gardens. That did cause a fair bit of entertainment. </p><p>Jon leans a little against Martin’s arm, swirling his beer bottle thoughtlessly. “I don’t think either of us felt settled enough to host something like this.”</p><p>“Yeah. We’re in our own home now, so it feels sort of… different,” Martin agrees. </p><p>Across the wooden garden table that they occupy, Tim points an accusatory glass of Pimm’s at Jon. “That’s bullshit. <i>You’ve</i> been holding out on us.”</p><p>Jon has no response for this. Honestly, he hadn’t realised he was so good a cook. Compared to Martin, baker extraordinaire, he thought his skills were pretty basic. </p><p>“Sorry,” Melanie interrupts, “but I thought my pasta carbonara was pretty legendary, actually?”</p><p>“You’re right,” Sasha agrees, hand on her pregnant belly. “I love scrambled eggs and pasta.”</p><p>Michael, who had been most offended by said dish at the time, is thankfully not listening – too engrossed by a quiet conversation with Gertrude. She is the only person Jon has ever seen Michael speak seriously to, and Jon distantly wonders what it is they’re discussing. </p><p>“I’ll host next time,” Helen announces imperiously. </p><p>Basira shares a look with Jon. It very almost makes him laugh, purely because Basira is so skilled at affecting a look of disdain without seemingly changing her expression at all. </p><p>“OK, just, can I request that we don’t eat anything scary and raw again?” Martin says. “Just a suggestion, since, you know.”</p><p>“You’re just fussy. Raw meat is a delicacy.”</p><p>“No, we’re just not fans of eating mystery, uncooked meats.”</p><p>“The profiteroles were good though.”</p><p>Daisy stands up to gather plates, and Tim joins to help. It’s beginning to get cold enough that they’ll either need to transfer themselves inside or fetch blankets, the porch lights turning on automatically as it gets dark. That dark blue-purple evening sky, the moon like a cut-out of silver paper above the rooves. </p><p>Conversations like these feel so unremarkable now. And yet two years ago, if Jon had been told that this group of people would even have met each other, he would never have believed it. His agent and editor, married and having their first child. His old editor, with two poet laureates that he’d once only hesitantly called friends. His two oldest friends. Two bodyguards who he’d picked up along the way. And, of course, Martin. Sat around the same table, it’s a sight that shouldn’t work, but it does. It’s an image of a life he never thought he’d have. </p><p>Martin taps Jon’s knee. “Just gonna head inside and get the pud.”</p><p>“Right. I’ll be along in a minute.”</p><p>They’re all now involved in a great debate of who’s cooking is worst, ranked downwards from Jon, apparently. Taking the democratic option, he opts for silence as he gathers the leftover plates and brings them inside just as Basira and Tim find their seats again. The French windows open into the kitchen, where Martin currently stands by the fridge, back turned to Jon. </p><p>Except, the fridge door isn’t open.</p><p>“Martin?”</p><p>At the sound of his voice, Martin turns slowly with his phone in his hand – reading something with a slack expression. </p><p>“Martin, what is it?”</p><p>He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, blinking at the screen. It leaves Jon frantically trying to parse his expression, figuring out whether this is good shock, or horrified shock. Then—</p><p>“I need you to read this.” He closes his eyes, shoves the phone in Jon’s direction, who catches it before it clatters to the floor. “Can you read it and just – can you tell me whether I’ve read it right? I can’t.”</p><p>This is somewhat alarming. Nonetheless, Jon reads the email that Martin has opened as calmly as possible. </p><p>
  <i>T.S. Eliot Prize for Poetry – Congratulations</i>
</p><p>Jon reads. He reads and he rereads the email from Martin’s editor – or, rather, an email from the T S Eliot Foundation which was subsequently forwarded onto him from his editor with a long string of exclamation marks and champagne bottle emojis. </p><p>“Jon.” From across the kitchen, Martin is holding his face like he’s trying to keep his head in place. “Jon. Did I— have I—?”</p><p>“Martin…”</p><p>This kind of pride – has he ever felt pride like this before? When Georgie and Melanie set up their bakery for the first time, perhaps – but not like this, not for anyone. A love and pride so colourful, like a bouncy castle filling with air. </p><p>Jon puts the phone down on the kitchen counter. He marches over to where Martin stands and launches himself into a hug – a hug that winds them both, arms everywhere, his face buried in Martin’s shoulder. It makes his skin hot, breath steaming up his glasses – but it’s better this way than any of the others seeing him cry.</p><p>“You’re brilliant, Martin.” He lifts his face so he can hear. “Absolutely remarkable.”</p><p>Martin’s arms go tighter around Jon’s waist. And then Jon finds himself being picked up and spun round – something he doesn’t usually enjoy in the slightest, but on this occasion he’s happy to indulge, arms around Martin’s neck. </p><p>It’s a good thing Gertrude brought a bottle of prosecco as a gift tonight. </p><p>***</p><p>
  <i>Blood is drying on her face, and she is in love again. The shapes of their hands meet unevenly, palm to palm, knee-deep in dead spider shells. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I’m sorry it took me so long,” she says. “It took me too long to see you.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Her smile is giving in a world of taking. “You had other things on your mind.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The tips of their fingers touch and their body could become a full circuit. Redness going crusty beneath her fingernails. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I was so alone.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She pulls her closer until the circuit is complete. “Not anymore.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon feels his hands stop. They’ve been racing at a speed that makes his wrists hurt, but now they’ve halted as if they’ve run out of battery. Staring at them, he wonders whether there’s any point in getting them to say much more. </p><p>After all, this feels like a good place to end the story.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>please come follow me at justkeeptrekkin on tumblr!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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